MVD  LARKS 

■  B 

CROSBIE  GARSTIN 


Q 


The  Old  Corner  Book 


THE   MUD  LARKS 

CROSBIE    GARSTIN 


MUD  LARKS 


BY 

CROSBIE   GARSTIN 

LIEUTENANT,  Isr  KING  EDWARD'S  HORSE 


NEW  XSF  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT.  1919, 
BY  GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


FBIKTED  IN  THE  XTNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF 

MY    BROTHER 

CAPTAIN   DENIS    NORMAN   GARSTIN, 

D.S.O.,   M.C. 

ORDER  OF  ST.   ANNE    OF  RUSSIA 

(lOTH  ROYAL   HUSSARS) 

KILLED    IN  ACTION 

NEAR  ARCHANGEL,  RUSSIA 

AUGUST    17TB,  1918 

"You  gallop  on  unfooted  asphodel  .  .  . 
And  wave  beyond  the  stars  that  all  is  well." 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 
I. 

The   "Ferts"      ...... 

PAGB 

13 

IT. 

Otto 

17 

III. 

A.  E.'s  Bath  and  Brock's  Benefit 

23 

IV. 

The  Messless  Mess 

28 

V. 

Climate  at  the  Front     .       .       .       , 

32 

VI. 

The   Padre 

35 

VII. 

The   Eiding-Master 

44 

VIII. 

National  Anthem       .       .       .       . 

50 

IX. 

Horse   Sense 

55 

X. 

.       61 

XI. 

Our  Mess  President  .... 

67 

XII. 

Funny  Cuts  ...... 

.       73 

XIII. 

Leave ;.       . 

.       78 

XIV. 

"Harmony,  Gents!" 

.       85 

XV. 

The  Mule  and  the  Tank 

.       91 

XVI. 

War  Paint 

.       96 

XVII. 

The  Pinch  of  War    .... 

.     100 

XVIII. 

The  Regimental  Mascot  . 

.     103 

XIX. 

War  Vegetation 

.     109 

XX. 

A  Change  of  Front  .... 

.     115 

XXI. 

Antonio  Giuseppe       .... 

.     121 

XXII. 

«I   Spy"       ...... 

.     127 

XXIII. 

A  Faux  Pas  ..... 

.     136 

XXIV. 

Mon  Eepos    .       .       .      t.,      !. 
▼a 

.     143 

Vlll 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

XXV.  "Fly,  Gentle  Dove" 

XXVI.  There  and  Back 

XXVII.  Hot  Air      .       . 

XXVIII.  The  Convert     . 

XXIX.  A  Eest  Cure      . 

XXX.  The  Harriers  (I) 

XXXI.  The  Harriers  (II) 

XXXII.  The  Camera  Cannot  Lie 

XXXIII.  Lionel  Trelavpney 

XXXIV.  The  Booby  Trap 
XXXV.  The  Phantom  Army 


pias 

147 

154 
158 
164 
171 
179 
186 
193 
199 
205 
209 


J 


THE  MUD   LARKS 


THE  MUD  LARKS 


THE  " FERTS " 

WHEN"  I  was  young,  mj  parents  sent  me  to  a  board- 
ing school,  not  in  any  hopes  of  getting  me  edu- 
cated, but  because  they  wanted  a  quiet  home. 

At  that  boarding  school  I  met  one  Frederick  Delane 
Milroy,  a  chubby  flame-coloured  brat  who  had  no  claims 
to  genius,  excepting  as  a  litterateur. 

The  occasion  that  established  his  reputation  with  the 
pen  was  a  Natural  History  essay.  We  were  given  five 
sheets  of  foolscap,  two  hours  and  our  own  choice  of 
subject.  I  chose  the  elephant,  I  remember,  having  once 
been  kind  to  one  through  the  medium  of  a  bag  of  nuts. 

Frederick  D.  Milroy  headed  his  effort  "  The  Fert " 
in  large  capitals,  and  began,  "  The  fert  is  a  noble  ani- 
mal  "    He  got  no  further,  the  extreme  nobility  of 

the  ferret  having  apparently  blinded  him  to  its  other 
characteristics. 

The  other  day,  as  I  was  wandering  about  on  the 
"  line,"  dodging  Boche  crumps  with  more  agility  than 
grace,  I  met  Milroy  (Frederick  Delane)  once  more. 

He  was  standing  at  the  entrance  of  a  cosy  little  funk- 
hole,  his  boots  and  tunic  undone,  sniffing  the  morning 
nitro-glycerine.    He  had  swollen  considerably  since  our 

13 


14  The  Mud  Larks 

literary  days,  but  was  wearing  his  hair  as  red  as  ever, 
and  I  should  have  known  it  anywhere — on  the  darkest 
night.  I  dived  for  him  and  his  hole,  pushed  him  into 
it,  and  re-introduced  myself.  He  remembered  me  quite 
well,  shook  my  chilblains  heartily,  and  invited  me 
further  underground  for  tea  and  talk. 

It  was  a  nice  hole,  cramped  and  damp,  but  very 
deep,  and  with  those  Boche  love-tokens  thudding  away 
upstairs  I  felt  that  the  nearer  Australia  the  better. 
But  the  rats!  K'ever  before  have  I  seen  rats  in  such 
quantities;  they  flowed  unchidden  all  over  the  dug-out, 
rummaged  in  the  cupboards,  played  kiss-in-the-ring  in 
the  shadows,  and  sang  and  bawled  behind  the  old  oak 
panelling  until  you  could  barely  hear  yourself  shout. 
I  am  fond  of  animals,  but  I  do  not  like  having  to  share 
my  tea  with  a  bald-headed  rodent  who  gets  noisy  in 
his  cups,  or  having  a  brace  of  high-spirited  youngsters 
wrestle  out  the  championship  of  the  district  on  my 
bread-and-butter. 

Freddy  apologised  for  them ;  they  were  getting  a  bit 
above  themselves,  he  was  afraid,  but  they  were  seldom 
dangerous,  seldom  attacked  one  unprovoked.  "  Live 
and  let  live  "  was  their  motto.  For  all  that  they  did 
get  a  trifle  de  trop  sometimes;  he  himself  had  lost  his 
temper  when  he  awoke  one  morning  to  find  a  brawny 
rat  sitting  on  his  face  combing  his  whiskers  in  mistake 
for  his  own  (a  pardonable  error  in  the  dark)  ;  and, 
determining  to  teach  them  a  lesson,  had  bethought  him 
of  his  old  friend,  the  noble  fert.  He  therefore  sent 
home  for  two  of  the  best. 


I 


The  "Ferts"  15 

The  ferrets  arrived  in  due  course,  received  the  names 
Burroughs  and  Welcome,  were  blessed  and  turned  loose. 

They  had  had  a  rough  trip  over  at  the  bottom  of  the 
mail  sack,  and  were  looking  for  trouble.  An  old  rat 
strolled  out  of  his  club  to  see  what  all  the  noise  was 
about,  and  got  the  excitement  he  needed.  Seven 
friends  came  to  his  funeral  and  never  smiled  again. 
There  was  great  rejoicing  in  that  underground  Mess 
that  evening;  Burroughs  and  Welcome  were  feted  on 
bully  beef  and  condensed  milk,  and  made  honorary 
members. 

For  three  days  the  good  work  went  on;  there  was 
weeping  in  the  cupboards  and  gnashing  of  teeth  behind 
the  old  oak  panelling.  Then  on  the  fourth  day  Bur- 
roughs and  Welcome  disappeared,  and  the  rats  swarmed 
to  their  own  again.  The  deserters  were  found  a  week 
later;  they  had  wormed  through  a  system  of  rat-holes 
into  the  next  dug-out,  inhabited  by  the  Atkinses,  and 
had  remained  there,  honoured  guests. 

It  is  the  nature  of  the  British  Atkins  to  make  a  pet 
of  anything,  from  a  toad  to  a  sucking-pig — he  cannot 
help  it.  The  story  about  St.  George,  doyen  of  British 
soldiers,  killing  that  dragon — nonsense !  He  would  have 
spanked  it,  maybe,  until  it  promised  to  reform,  then 
given  it  a  cigarette,  and  taken  it  home  to  amuse  the 
children.  To  return  to  our  ferrets,  Burroughs  and  Wel- 
come provided  no  exception  to  the  rule ;  they  were  taught 
to  sit  up  and  beg,  and  lie  down  and  die,  to  turn  hand- 
springs and  play  the  mouth-organ;  they  were  gorged 
with  Maconochie,  plum  jam  and  rum  ration;  it  was 


i6  The  Mud  Larks 

doubtful  if  they  ever  went  to  bed  sober.  Times  out  of 
number  they  were  borne  back  to  the  Officers'  Mess  and 
exhorted  to  do  their  bit,  but  they  returned  immediately 
to  their  friends  the  Atkinses,  via  their  private  route, 
not  unnaturally  preferring  a  life  of  continuous  carousal 
and  vaudeville  among  the  flesh-pots,  to  sapping  and 
mining  down  wet  rat-holes. 

Freddy  was  of  opinion  that,  when  the  battalion  pro- 
ceeded up  Unter  den  Linden,  Burroughs  and  Welcome 
would  be  with  it  as  regimental  mascots,  marching  be- 
hind the  band,  bells  on  their  fingers,  rings  on  their 
toes.  lie  also  assured  me  that  if  he  ever  again  has  to 
write  an  essay  on  the  Fert,  its  characteristics,  the  ad* 
jective  "  noble  "  will  not  figure  so  prominently. 


I 


Otto  17 

II 

OTTO 

IiSr  the  long  long  ago,  Frobisher  and  I,  assisted  by  a 
handful  of  native  troopers,  kept  the  flag  flying  at 
M'Vini. 

We  hoisted  it  to  the  top  of  a  tree  at  sun-up,  where 
it  remained,  languidly  flapping  its  tatters  over  leagues 
of  Central  Africa  bush  till  sunset,  when  we  hauled  it 
down  again — an  arduous  life.  After  we  had  been  at 
M'Vini  about  six  months,  had  shot  everything  worth 
shooting,  and  knew  one  another's  funny  stories  off  by 
heart,  Frobisher  and  I  grew  bored  with  each  other, 
hated  in  fact  the  sight,  sound  and  mere  propinquity  of 
each  other,  and,  shutting  ourselves  up  in  our  separate 
huts,  communicated  only  on  occasions  of  the  direst 
necessity,  and  then  by  the  curtest  of  official  notes.  Thus 
a  further  three  months  dragged  on. 

Then  one  red-hot  afternoon  came  Frobisher's  boy 
to  my  wattle-and-dab,  bearing  a  note. 

"  Visitor  approaching  from  S.W.  got  up  like  a  May 
Queen ;  think  it  must  be  the  Kaiser.  Lend  me  a  bottle 
of  whisky,  and  mount  a  guard — must  impress  the 
blighter." 

I  attached  my  last  bottle  of  Scotch  to  the  messenger 
and  sallied  forth  to  mount  a  guard,  none  too  easy  a  job, 
as  the  Army  had  gone  to  celebrate  somebody's  birth- 


1 8  The  Mud  Larks 

day  in  the  neighbouring  village.  However,  I  discovered 
one  remaining  trooper  lying  in  the  shade  of  a  loquat- 
tree.  He  was  sick — dying,  he  assured  me;  but  I  per- 
suaded him  to  postpone  his  demise  for  at  least  half  an 
hour,  requisitioned  his  physician  (the  local  witch 
doctor)  and  two  camp  followers,  and,  leaving  my  cook- 
boy  to  valet  them,  dashed  to  my  hut  to  make  my  own 
toilet.  A  glimpse  through  the  cane  mats  five  minutes 
later  showed  me  that  our  visitors  had  arrived. 

A  fruity  German  officer  in  full  gala  rig  (white 
gloves  and  all)  was  cruising  about  on  mule-back  before 
our  camp,  trying  to  discover  whether  it  was  inhabited 
or  not.  We  let  him  cruise  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  with- 
out taking  any  steps  to  enlighten  him.  Then,  at  a  given 
signal,  Frobisher,  caparisoned  in  every  fal-lal  he  could 
collect,  issued  from  his  hut,  and  I  turned  out  the  im- 
provised guard.  A  stirring  spectacle;  and  it  had  the 
desired  effect,  for  the  German  afterwards  admitted  to 
being  deeply  impressed,  especially  by  the  local  wizard, 
who  paraded  in  his  professional  regalia,  and,  coming  to 
cross-purposes  with  his  rifle,  bayoneted  himself  and  wept 
bitterly.  The  ceremonies  over  and  the  casualty  re- 
moved, we  adjourned  to  Frobisher's  hya,  broached  the 
whisky  and  sat  about  in  solemn  state,  stiff  with  accoutre- 
ments, sodden  with  perspiration.  Our  visitor  kept  the 
Red,  White  and  Black  flying  on  a  tree  over  the  border, 
he  explained ;  this  was  his  annual  ceremonial  call.  He 
sighed  and  brushed  the  sweat  from  his  nose  with  the 
tips  of  a  white  glove — "  the  weather  was  warm,  nicM 
wahr?  "    I  admitted  that  ^^e  dabbled  in  flag-flying  our- 


Otto  19 

selves  and  that  the  weather  was  all  he  claimed  for  it 
(which  effort  cost  me  about  four  pounds  in  weight). 
Tongues  lolling,  flanks  heaving,  we  discussed  the  hut 
tax,  the  melon  crop,  the  monkey-nut  market,  the  nigger 
— and  the  weather  again. 

Suddenly  Frobisher  sprang  up,  cast  loose  the  shack- 
les of  his  Sam  Browne,  hurled  it  into  a  corner,  and 
began  tearing  at  his  tunic  hooks.  I  stared  at  him  in 
amazement — such  manners  before  visitors !  But  our 
immaculate  guest  leapt  to  his  feet  with  a  roar  like  a 
freed  lion,  and,  stripping  his  white  gloves,  flung  them 
after  the  Sam  Browne,  whereupon  a  fury  of  undressing 
came  upon  us.  Helmets,  belts,  tunics,  shirts  were  piled 
into  the  corner,  until  at  length  we  stood  in  our  under- 
clothes, laughing  and  unashamed.  After  that  we  got 
on  famously,  that  Teuton  and  we,  and  three  days  later, 
when  he  swarmed  aboard  his  mule  and  left  for  home 
(in  pyjamas  this  time)  it  was  with  real  regret  we 
waved  him  farewell. 

But  not  for  long.  Within  a  month  we  were  sur- 
prised by  a  hail  from  the  bush,  and  there  was  Otto, 
mule,  pyjamas  and  all. 

"'Ullo,  'ullo,  'ullo!"  he  carolled.  "'Ere  gomes  ze 
Sherman  invasion!  Burn  out  ze  guard!  He  roared 
with  laughter,  fell  off  his  palfrey  and  bawled  for  his 
batman,  who  ambled  up,  balancing  a  square  box  on 
his  woolly  pate. 

His  mother  in  Munich  had  sent  him  a  case  of  Lion 
Brew,  Otto  explained,  so  he  had  brought  it  along. 

We  wassailed  deep  into  that  night  and  out  the  other 


20  The  Mud  Larks 

side,  and  we  liked  our  Otto  more  than  ever.  We  had 
plenty  in  common,  the  same  loneliness,  fevers,  climate, 
and  niggers  t<D  wrestle  with;  moreover  he  had  heen  in 
England,  and  liked  it;  he  smoked  a  pipe;  he  washed. 
Also,  as  he  privily  confided  to  us  in  the  young  hours 
of  one  morning,  he  had  his  douhts  as  to  the  divinity  of 
the  Kaiser,  and  was  not  quite  convinced  that  Richard 
Strauss  had  composed  the  music  of  the  spheres. 

He  was  a  bad  Hun  (which  probably  accounted  for 
his  presence  at  the  uttermost,  hottermost  edge  of  the 
All-Highest's  dominions),  but  a  good  fellow.  Anyhow, 
we  liked  him,  Frobisher  and  I ;  liked  his  bull-mouthed 
laughter,  his  drinking  songs  and  full-blooded  anecdotes, 
and,  on  the  occasions  of  his  frequent  visits,  put  our 
boredom  from  ns,  pretended  to  be  on  the  most  affec- 
tionate terms,  and  even  laughed  uproariously  at  each 
other's  funny  stories.  Up  at  M'Vini,  in  the  long  long 
ago,  the  gleam  of  pyjamas  amongst  the  loquats,  and 
"  'Ere  gomes  ze  Sherman  invasion !  "  booming  through 
the  bush,  became  a  signal  for  general  goodwill. 

In  the  fullness  of  time  Otto  went  home  on  leave, 
and,  shortly  afterwards,  the  world  blew  up. 

And  now  I  have  met  him  again,  a  sodden,  muddy, 
bloody,  shrunken,  saddened  Otto,  limping  through  a 
snow-storm  in  the  custody  of  a  Canadian  corporal.  He 
was  the  survivor  of  a  rear-guard,  the  Canuck  explained, 
and  had  "  scrapped  like  a  bag  of  wild-cats "  until 
knocked  out  by  a  rifle  butt.  As  for  Otto  himself,  he 
hadn't  much  to  say;  he  looked  old,  cold,  sick  and  in- 
finitely disgusted.    He  had  always  been  a  poor  Hon. 


Otto  21 

Only  once  did  he  show  a  gleam  of  his  ancient  form 
of  those  old  hot,  happy,  pyjama  days  on  the  Equator. 

A  rabble  of  prisoners — Jagers,  Grenadiers,  Uhlans, 
whatnots — came  trudging  down  the  road,  an  unshorn, 
dishevelled  herd  of  cut-throats,  propelled  by  a  brace 
of  diminutive  kilties,  who  paused  occasionally  to  treat 
them  to  snatches  of  flings  and  to  hoot  triumphantly. 

Otto  regarded  his  fallen  compatriots  with  disgusted 
lack-lustre  eyes,  then  turning  to  me  with  a  ghost  of 
his  old  smile,  "  'Ere  gomes  ze  Sherman  invasion,"  said 
he. 


22  The  Mud  Larks 

III 
A.  E.'S  BATH  AND  BKOCK'S  BENEFIT 

NEVER  have  I  seen  a  kiltie  platoon  wading  through 
the  cold  porridge  of  snow  and  slush  of  which  our 
front  used  to  be  composed,  but  I  have  said,  with  my 
French  friend,  "  Mon  Dieu  les  currents  d'air!"  and 
thank  Fate  that  I  belong  to  a  race  which  reserves  its 
national  costume  for  fancy-dress  balls. 

It  is  very  well  for  MacAlpine  of  Ben  Lomond,  who 
has  stalked  his  haggis  and  devoured  it  raw,  who  beds 
down  on  thistles  for  preference  and  grows  his  own  fur ; 
but  it  is  very  hard  on  Smith  of  Peckham,  who  through 
no  fault  of  his  own  finds  himself  in  a  Highland  regi- 
ment, trying  to  make  his  shirt-tails  do  where  his  trous- 
ers did  before.  But  the  real  heather-mixture,  double^ 
distilled  Scot  is  a  hardy  bird  with  different  ideas  from 
nous  autres  as  to  what  is  cold:  also  as  to  what  is  hot. 
Witness  the  trying  experience  of  our  Albert  Edward. 

Our  Albert  Edward  and  a  Hun  rifle  grenade  arrived 
at  the  same  place  at  the  same  time,  intermingled  and 
went  down  to  the  Base  to  be  sifted.  In  the  course  of 
time  came  a  wire  from  our  Albert  Edward,  saying  he 
had  got  the  grenade  out  of  his  system  and  was  at  that 
moment  at  the  railhead;  were  we  going  to  send  him 
a  horse  or  weren't  we  ? 

Emma  was  detailed  for  the  job,  which  was  a  mis- 


A.  E.'s  Bath  and  Brock's  Benefit        23 

take,  because  Emma  was  not  the  mount  for  a  man  who 
had  been  softening  for  five  months  in  hospital.  She 
had  only  two  speeds  in  her  repertoire,  a  walk  which 
slung  you  up  and  down  her  back  from  her  ears  to  her 
croup,  and  a  trot  which  jarred  your  teeth  loose  and 
rattled  the  buttons  off  your  tunic.  However,  she  went 
to  the  railhead  and  Albert  Edward  mounted  her,  threw 
the  clutch  into  the  first  speed  and  hammered  out  the 
ten  miles  to  our  camp,  arriving  smothered  in  snow  and 
so  stiff  we  had  to  lift  him  down,  so  raw  it  was  a  mock- 
ery to  offer  him  a  chair,  and  therefore  he  had  to  take 
his  tea  off  the  mantelpiece. 

We  advised  a  visit  to  Sandy.  Sandy  was  the  hot- 
bath  merchant.  He  lurked  in  a  dark  barn  at  the  end 
of  the  village,  and  could  be  found  there  at  any  time 
of  any  day,  brooding  over  the  black  cauldrons  in  which 
the  baths  were  brewed,  his  Tam-o'shanter  drooped  over 
one  eye,  steam  condensing  on  his  blue  nose.  Theoretic- 
ally the  hot  baths  were  free,  but  in  practice  a  franc 
pressed  into  Sandy's  forepaw  was  found  to  have  a 
strong  calorific  effect  on  the  water. 

So  down  the  village  on  all  fours,  groaning  like  a 
Dutch  brig  in  a  cross  sea,  went  our  Albert  Edward. 
He  crawled  into  the  dark  barn  and,  having  no  smaller 
change,  contributed  a  two-franc  bill  to  the  forepaw  and 
told  Sandy  about  his  awful  stiffness.  His  eloquence 
and  the  double  fee  broke  Sandy's  heart.  "With  great 
tears  in  his  eyes  he  assured  Albert  Edward  that  the 
utmost  resources  of  his  experience  and  establishment 
should  be  mobilised  on  his  (Albert  Edward's)  behalf. 


24  The  Mud  Larks 

and  ushered  him  tenderly  into  that  hidden  chamber, 
constructed  of  sacking  screens,  which  was  reserved  for 
officers.  Albert  Edward  peeled  his  clothes  gingerly 
from  him,  and  Sandy  returned  to  his  cauldrons. 

The  peeling  complete,  Albert  Edward  sat  in  the 
draughts  of  the  inner  chamber  and  waited  for  the  bath. 
The  outer  chamber  was  filled  with  smoke,  and  the 
flames  were  leaping  six  feet  above  the  cauldrons;  but 
every  time  Albert  Edward  holloaed  for  his  bath  Sandy 
implored  another  minute's  grace. 

Finally  Albert  Edward  could  stand  the  draughts  no 
longer  and  ordered  Sandy,  on  pain  of  court  martial 
and  death,  to  bring  the  water,  hot  or  not. 

Whereupon  Sandy  reluctantly  brought  his  buckets 
along,  and,  grumbling  that  neither  his  experience  nor 
establishment  had  had  a  fair  chance,  emptied  them  into 
the  tub.  Albert  Edward  stepped  in  without  further 
remark  and  sat  down. 

The  rest  of  the  story  I  had  from  my  groom  and 
countryman,  who,  along  with  an  odd  hundred  other 
people,  happened  to  be  patronising  the  outer  chamber 
tubs  at  the  time.  He  told  me  that  suddenly  they  heard 
"  a  yowl  like  a  man  that's  afther  bein'  bit  be  a  mad 
dog,"  and  over  the  screen  of  the  inner  chamber  came 
our  Albert  Edward  in  his  birthday  dress.  "  Took  it 
in  his  sthride,  Sor,  an'  coursed  three  laps  round  the 
bathhouse  cursin'  the  way  he'd  wither  the  Divil,"  said 
my  groom  and  countryman ;  "  then  he  ran  out  of  the 
door  into  the  snow  an'  lay  down  in  it."  He  likewise 
told  ni"  that  Albert  Edward's  performance  had  caused 


A.  E.'s  Bath  and  Brock's  Benefit        25 

a  profound  sensation  among  the  other  bathers,  and  they 
inquired  of  Sandy  as  to  the  cause  thereof;  but  Sandy 
shook  his  Tam-o'  shanter  and  couldn't  tell  them ;  hadn't 
the  vaguest  idea.  The  water  he  had  given  Albert  Ed- 
ward was  hardly  scalding,  he  said;  hardly  scalding, 
with  barely  one  packet  of  mustard  dissolved  in  it. 

Our  Albert  Edward  is  still  taking  his  meals  oflF  the 
mantelpiece. 

I  met  my  friend,  the  French  battery  commander, 
yesterday.  He  was  cantering  a  showy  chestnut  mare 
over  the  turf,  humming  a  tune  aloud.  He  looked  very 
fit  and  very  much  in  love  with  the  world.  I  asked  him 
what  he  meant  by  it.  He  replied  that  he  couldn't  help 
it;  everybody  was  combining  to  make  him  happy;  his 
CO.  had  fallen  down  a  gun-pit  and  broken  a  leg;  he 
had  won  two  hundred  francs  from  his  pet  enemy;  he 
had  discovered  a  jewel  of  a  cook;  and  then  there  was 
always  the  Boche,  the  perfectly  priceless,  absolutely 
ridiculous,  screamingly  funny  little  Boche.  The 
Boche,  properly  exploited,  was  a  veritable  fount  of 
joy.  He  dreaded  the  end  of  the  War,  he  assured  me, 
for  a  world  without  Boches  would  be  a  salad  sans  the 
dressing. 

I  inquired  as  to  how  the  arch-humorist  had  been 
excelling  himself  lately. 

The  Captain  passaged  his  chestnut  alongside  my 
bay,  chuckled  and  told  me  all  about  it.  It  appeared 
that  one  wet  night  he  was  rung  up  by  the  Infantry  to 
say  that  the  neighbouring  Hun  was  up  to  some  funny 


26  The  Mud  Larks 

business,  and  would  he  stand  by  for  a  barrage,  please? 

What  sort  of  funny  business  was  the  Hun  putting 
up? 

Oh,  a  rocket  had  gone  up  over  the  way  and  they 
thought  it  was  a  signal  for  some  frightfulness  or  other. 

He  stood  by  for  half  an  hour,  and  then,  as  nothing 
happened,  turned  in.  Ten  minutes  later  the  Infantry 
rang  up  again.  More  funny  business;  three  rockets 
had  gone  up. 

He  stood  by  for  an  hour  with  no  result,  then  sought 
his  bunk  once  more,  cursing  all  men.  Confound  the 
Infantry  getting  the  jumps  over  a  rocket  or  two!  Con- 
found them  two  times !  Then  a  spark  of  inspiration 
glowed  within  him,  glowed  and  flamed  brightly.  If 
his  exalted  poilus  got  the  wind  up  over  a  handful  of 
rockets,  how  much  more  also  would  the  deteriorating 
Boche  ? 

Gurgling  happily,  he  brushed  the  rats  off  his  chest 
and  the  beetles  off  his  face,  turned  over  and  went  to 
sleep.  lN"ext  morning  he  wrote  a  letter  to  his  "  god- 
mother "  in  Paris  ("  une  petite  femme,  ires  intel- 
ligente,  vous  savez^^),  and  ten  days  later  her  parcels 
came  tumbling  in.  The  first  night  (a  Monday)  he 
gave  a  modest  display,  red  and  white  rockets  bursting 
into  green  stars  every  five  minutes.  Tuesday  night 
more  rockets,  with  a  few  Catherine-wheels  thrown  in. 
Wednesday  night,  Catherine-wheels  and  golden  rain, 
and  so  on  until  the  end  of  the  week,  when  they  finished 
up  with  a  grand  special  attraction  and  all-star  pro- 
gramme,   squibs,    Catherine-wheels,    Roman    candles, 


A.  E.'s  Bath  and  Brock's  Benefit        27 

Prince  of  Wales'  feathers,  terminating  in  a  blinding, 
fizzing  barrage  of  coloured  rockets,  and  "  God  bless  our 
Home  "  in  golden  stars. 

"  All  very  pretty,"  said  I,  "  but  what  were  the 
results  ?  " 

"  Precisely  what  I  anticipated.  A  deserter  came 
over  yesterday  who  was  through  it  all  and  didn't  intend 
to  go  through  it  again.  They  had  got  the  wind  up 
properly,  he  said,  hadn't  had  a  wink  of  sleep  for  a  week. 
His  officers  had  scratched  themselves  bald-headed  trying 
to  guess  what  it  was  all  about.  All  ranks  stood  to  con- 
tinuously, up  to  their  waists  in  mud,  frozen  stiff  and 
half  drowned,  while  my  brave  little  rogues  of  ■poilus, 
mark  you,  slept  in  their  dug-outs,  and  the  only  man  on 
duty  was  the  lad  who  was  touching  the  fireworks  off. 
O  friend  of  mine,  there  is  much  innocent  fun  to  be  got 
out  of  the  Boche  if  you'll  only  give  him  a  chance!  " 


28  The  Mud  Larks 


IV 

THE  MESSLESS  MESS 

/'^UR  mess  was  situated  on  the  crest  of  a  ridge,  and 
^^  enjoyed  an  uninterrupted  view  of  rolling  leagues 
of  mud  J  it  had  the  appearance  of  a  packing-case  float- 
ing on  an  ocean  of  ooze. 

We  and  our  servants,  and  our  rats  and  our  cock- 
roaches, and  our  other  bosom-companions  slept  in  tents 
pitched  round  and  about  the  mess. 

The  whole  camp  was  connected  with  the  outer  world 
by  a  pathway  of  ammunition  boxes,  laid  stepping- 
stonewise;  we  went  to  and  fro,  leaping  from  box  to 
box  as  leaps  the  chamois  from  Alp  to  Alp.  Should  you 
miss  your  leap  there  would  be  a  swirl  of  mud,  a  gulping 
noise,  and  that  was  the  end  of  you;  your  sorrowing 
comrades  shed  a  little  chloride  of  lime  over  the  spot 
where  you  were  last  seen,  posted  you  as  "  Believed 
missing  "  and  indented  for  another  Second  Lieutenant 
(or  Field-Marshal,  as  the  case  might  be). 

Our  mess  was  constructed  of  loosely  piled  shell  boxes, 
and  roofed  by  a  tin  lid.  We  stole  the  ingredients  box 
by  box,  and  erected  the  house  with  our  own  fair  hands, 
so  we  loved  it  with  parental  love ;  but  it  had  its  little 
drawbacks.  Whenever  the  field  guns  in  our  neighbour- 
hood did  any  business,  the  tin  lid  rattled  madly  and  the 
shell  boxes  jostled  each  other  all  over  the  place.    It  was 


The  Messless  Mess  29 

quite  possible  to  leave  our  mess  at  peep  0'  day  severely 
Gothic  in  design,  and  to  return  at  dewy  eve  to  find  it 
rakishly  Rococo. 

William,  our  Transport  Officer  and  Mess  President, 
was  everlastingly  piping  all  hands  on  deck  at  unseemly 
hours  to  save  the  home  and  push  it  back  into  shape ;  we 
were  householders  in  the  fullest  sense  of  the  term. 

Before  the  War,  William  assures  us,  he  was  a  bright 
young  thing,  full  of  merry  quips  and  jolly  practical 
jokes,  the  life  and  soul  of  any  party,  but  what  with  the 
contortions  of  the  mess  and  the  vagaries  of  the  transport 
mules  he  had  become  a  saddened  man. 

Between  them — the  mules  and  the  mess — he  never  got 
a  whole  night  in  bed ;  either  the  mules  were  having  bad 
dreams,  sleep-walking  into  strange  lines  and  getting 
themselves  abhorred,  or  the  field  guns  were  on  the  job 
and  the  mess  had  the  jumps.  If  Hans,  the  Hun,  had 
not  been  the  perfect  little  gentleman  he  is,  and  had 
dropped  a  shell  anpvhere  near  us  (instead  of  assid- 
uously spraying  a  distant  ridge  where  nobody  ever  was, 
is,  or  will  be)  our  mess  would  have  been  with  Tyre  and 
Sidon ;  but  Hans  never  forgot  himself  for  a  moment ;  it 
was  our  own  side  we  distrusted.  The  Heavies,  for  in- 
stance. The  Heavies  warped  themselves  laboriously 
into  position  behind  our  hill,  disguised  themselves  as 
gooseberry  bushes,  and  gave  an  impression  of  the  crack 
of  doom  at  2  a.m.  one  snowy  morning. 

Our  mess  immediately  broke  out  into  St.  Vitus's 
dance,  and  William  piped  all  hands  on  deck. 

The  Skipper,  picturesquely  clad  in  boots  (gum,  high) 


30  The  Mud  Larks 

and  a  goat's  skin,  flung  himself  on  the  east  wing,  and 
hecame  an  animated  huttress.  Albert  Edward  climbed 
aloft  and  sat  on  the  tin  lid,  which  was  opening  and 
shutting  at  every  pore.  Mactavish  put  his  shoulder  to 
the  south  wall  to  keep  it  from  working  round  to  the 
north.  I  clung  to  the  pantry,  which  was  coming  adrift 
from  its  parent  stem,  while  William  ran  about  every- 
where, giving  advice  and  falling  over  things.  The  mess 
passed  rapidly  through  every  style  of  architecture,  from 
a  Chinese  pagoda  to  a  Swiss  chalet,  and  was  on  the  point 
of  confusing  itself  with  a  Spanish  castle  when  the 
Heavies  switched  off  their  hate  and  went  to  bed.  And 
not  a  second  too  soon.  Another  moment  and  I  should 
have  dropped  the  pantry,  Albert  Edward  would  have 
been  sea-sick,  and  the  Skipper  would  have  let  the  east 
wing  go  west. 

We  pushed  the  mess  back  into  shape,  and  went  inside 
it  for  a  peg  of  something  and  a  consultation.  Next 
evening  William  called  on  the  Heavies'  commander  and 
decoyed  him  up  to  dine.  We  regaled  him  with  wassail 
and  gramophone  and  explained  the  situation  to  him. 
The  Lord  of  the  Heavies,  a  charming  fellow,  nearly 
burst  into  tears  when  he  heard  of  the  ill  he  had  unwit- 
tingly done  us,  and  was  led  home  by  William  at  1.30 
a.m.,  swearing  to  withdraw  his  infernal  machines,  or 
beat  them  into  ploughshares,  the  very  next  day.  The 
very  next  night  our  mess,  without  any  sort  of  prelimi- 
nary warning,  lost  its  balance,  sat  down  with  a  crash,  and 
lay  littered  about  a  quarter  of  an  acre  of  ground.  We 
all  turned  out  and  miserably  surveyed  the  ruins.    What 


The  Messless  Mess  31 

had  done  it?  We  couldn't  guess.  The  field  guns  had 
gone  to  bye-bye,  the  Heavies  had  gone  elsewhere.  Hans, 
the  Hun,  couldn't  have  made  a  mistake  and  shelled  iis  ? 
l!^ever !  It  was  a  mystery ;  so  we  all  lifted  up  our 
voices  and  wailed  for  William.  He  was  Mess  President; 
it  was  his  fault,  of  course. 

At  that  moment  William  hove  out  of  the  night,  driv- 
ing his  tent  before  him  by  bashing  it  with  a  mallet. 

According  to  William  there  was  one  "  Sunny  Jim," 
a  morbid  transport  mule,  inside  the  tent,  providing  the 
motive  power.  "  Sunny  Jim  "  had  always  been  some- 
thing of  a  somnambulist,  and  this  time  he  had  sleep- 
walked clean  through  our  mess  and  on  into  W^illiam's 
tent,  where  the  mallet  woke  him  up.  He  was  then  mak- 
'ing  the  best  of  his  way  home  to  lines  again,  expedited 
by  William  and  the  mallet. 

So  now  we  are  messless ;  now  we  crouch  shivering  in 
tents  and  talk  lovingly  of  the  good  old  times  beneath  our 
good  old  tin  roof-tree,  of  the  wonderful  view  of  the  mud 
we  used  to  get  from  our  window,  and  of  the  homely  tune 
our  shell  boxes  used  to  perform  as  they  jostled  together 
of  a  stormy  night. 

And  sometimes,  as  we  crouch  shivering  in  our  tents, 
we  hear  a  strange  sound  stealing  uphill  from  the  lines. 
It  is  the  mules  laughing. 


32  The  Mud  Larks 

y. 

CLIMATE  AT  THE  FROITT 

T  F  there  is  one  man  in  France  whom  I  do  not  envy  it 
■*"  is  the  G.H.Q.  Weather  Prophet.  I  can  picture  the 
unfortunate  wizard  sitting  in  his  bureau  gazing  into  a 
crystal,  Old  Moore's  Almanack  in  one  hand,  a  piece  of 
seaweed  in  the  other,  trying  to  guess  what  tricks  the 
weather  will  be  up  to  next. 

For  there  is  nothing  this  climate  cannot  do.  As  a 
quick-change  artist  it  stands  sanspareil  (French)  and 
nulli  secundus  (Latin). 

And  now  it  seems  to  have  mislaid  the  Spring  alto- 
gether. Summer  has  come  at  one  stride.  Yesterday  the 
staff-cars  smothered  one  with  mud  as  they  whirled 
past;  to-day  they  choke  one  with  dust.  Yesterday  the 
authorities  were  issuing  precautions  against  frostbite; 
to-day  they  are  issuing  precautions  against  sunstroke. 
Nevertheless  we  are  not  complaining.  It  will  take  a  lot 
of  sunshine  to  kill  us;  we  like  it,  and  we  don't  mind 
saying  so. 

The  B.E.F.  has  cast  from  it  its  mitts  and  jerkins  and 
whale-oil,  emerged  from  its  subterranean  burrows  into 
the  open,  and  in  every  wood  a  mushroom  town  of 
bivouacs  has  sprung  up  over-night.  Here  and  there 
amateur  gardeners  have  planted  flower-beds  before  their 
tents;  one  of  my  corporals  is  nursing  some  radishes  in 


Climate  at  the  Front  33 

an  ammunition  box  and  talks  crop  prospects  by  the  hour. 
My  troop-sergeant  found  two  palm  plants  in  the  ruins 
of  a  chateau  glass-house,  and  now  has  them  standing 
sentry  at  his  bivouac  entrance.  He  sits  between  them 
after  evening  stables,  smoking  his  pipe  and  fancying 
himself  back  in  Zanzibar;  he  expects  the  coker-nuts 
along  about  August,  he  tells  me. 

Summer  has  come,  and  on  every  slope  graze  herds  of 
winter-worn  gun  horses  and  transport  mules.  The  new 
grass  has  gone  to  the  heads  of  the  latter  and  they  make 
continuous  exhibitions  of  themselves,  gambolling  about 
like  ungainly  lambkins  and  roaring  with  unholy  laugh- 
ter. Summer  has  come,  and  my  groom  and  countryman 
has  started  to  whistle  again,  sure  sign  that  Winter  is 
over,  for  it  is  only  during  the  Summer  that  he  reconciles 
himself  to  the  War.  War,  he  admits,  serves  very  well  as 
a  light  gentlemanly  diversion  for  the  idle  months,  but 
with  the  first  yellow  leaf  he  grows  restless  and  hints 
indirectly  that  both  ourselves  and  the  horses  would  be 
much  better  employed  in  the  really  serious  business  of 
showing  the  little  foxes  some  sport  back  in  our  own 
green  isle.  "  That  Paddy,"  says  he,  slapping  the  bay 
with  a  hay  wisp,  "  he  wishes  he  was  back  in  the  county 
Kildare,  he  does  so,  the  dear  knows.  Pegeen,  too,  if 
she  would  be  hearin'  the  houn's  shoutin'  out  on  her  from 
the  kennels  beyond  in  Jigginstown  she'd  dhrop  down 
dead  wid  the  pleasure  wid'in  her,  an'  that's  the  thrue 
word,"  says  he,  presenting  the  chestnut  lady  with  a 
grimy  army  biscuit.  "  Och  musha,  the  poor  foolish  cra- 
tures,"  he  says  and  sighs. 


34  The  Mud  Larks 

However,  Summer  has  arrived,  and  by  the  sound  of 
his  cheery  whistle  at  early  stables  shrilling  "  Flan- 
nigan's  Wedding,"  I  understand  that  the  horses  are 
settling  down  once  more  and  we  can  proceed  with  the 
battle. 

If  my  groom  and  countryman  is  not  an  advocate  of 
war  as  a  winter  sport,  our  Mr.  Mactavish,  on  the  other 
hand,  is  of  the  directly  opposite  opinion.  "  War,"  he 
murmured  dreamily  to  me  yesterday  as  we  lay  on  our 
backs  beneath  a  spreading  parasol  of  apple-blossom  and 
watched  our  troop-horses  making  pigs  of  themselves  in 
the  young  clover — "  war !  don't  mention  the  word  to  me. 
Maidenhead,  Canader,  cushions,  cigarettes,  only  girl  in 
the  world  doing  all  the  heavy  paddle- work — that's  the 
game  in  the  good  ole  summer-time.  Call  round  again 
about  October  and  I'll  attend  to  your  old  war."  It  is 
fortunate  that  these  gentlemen  do  not  adorn  any  higher 
positions  than  those  of  private  soldier  and  second  lieu- 
tenant, else,  between  them,  they  would  stop  the  War 
altogether  and  we  should  all  be  out  of  jobs. 


The  Padre  35 

VI 
THE  PADRE 

YOU  have  all  seen  it  in  the  latest  V.C.  list—"  The 
Reverend  Paul  Grajne,  Chaplain  to  the  Forces, 
for  conspicuous  bravery  and  gallant  example  in  the  face 
of  desperate  circumstances." 

You  have  all  pictured  him,  the  beau-ideal  of  muscular 
Christian,  the  Fighting  Parson,  eighteen  hands  high, 
terrific  in  wind  and  limb,  with  a  golden  mane  and  a 
Greek  profile;  a  Pekinese  in  the  drawing-room,  a  bull- 
dog in  the  arena;  a  soupgon  of  Saint  Francis  with  a  dash 
of  John  L.  Sullivan — and  all  that. 

But  we  who  have  met  heroes  know  that  they  are  very 
seldom  of  the  type  which  achieves  the  immortality  of 
the  picture  post  card. 

The  stalwart  with  pearly  teeth,  lilac  eyes  and  curly 
lashes  is  C3  at  Lloyd's  (Sir  Francis),  and  may  be 
heard  twice  daily  at  the  Frivolity  singing,  "  My  Goo- 
goo  Girl  from  Honolulu"  to  entranced  flappers;  while 
the  lad  who  has  Fritzie  D.  Hun  backed  on  the  ropes, 
clinching  for  time,  is  usually  gifted  with  bow  legs, 
freckles,  a  dented  proboscis  and  a  coiffure  after  the 
manner  of  a  wire-haired  terrier. 

The  Reverend  Paul  Grayne,  v.c,  sometime  curate  of 
Thorpington  Parva,  in  the  county  of  Hampshire,  was 
no  exception  to  this  rule,    ^sthetically  he  was  a  blot 


36  The  Mud  Larks 

on  the  landscape;  among  all  the  heroes  I  have  met  I 
never  saw  anything  less  heroically  moulded. 

He  stood  about  five  feet  nought  and  tipped  the  beam 
at  seven  stone  nothing.  He  had  a  mild  chinless  face, 
and  his  long  beaky  nose,  round  large  spectacles,  and  [ 
trick  of  cocking  his  head  sideways  when  conversing, 
gave  him  the  appearance  of  an  intelligent  little  dicky- 
bird. 

I  remember  very  well  the  occasion  of  our  first  meet- 
ing. I  Avas  in  my  troop  lines  one  afternoon,  blackguard- 
ing a  farrier,  when  a  loud  nicker  sounded  on  the  road 
and  a  black  cob,  bearing  a  feebly  protesting  Padre  upon 
his  fat  back,  trotted  through  the  gate,  up  to  the  lines  and 
began  to  swop  How  d'y'  do's  with  my  hairies.  The 
little  Padre  cocked  his  head  on  one  side  and  oozed 
apologies  from  every  pore. 

He  hadn't  meant  to  intrude,  he  twittered ;  Peter  had 
brought  him;  it  was  Peter's  fault;  Peter  was  very 
eccentric. 

Peter,  I  gathered,  was  the  fat  cob,  who  by  this  time 
had  butted  into  the  lines  and  was  tearing  at  a  hay  net 
as  if  he  hadn't  had  a  meal  for  years. 

His  alleged  master  looked  at  me  hopeless,  helpless. 
What  was  he  to  do  ?  "  Well,  since  Peter  is  evidently 
stopping  to  tea  with  my  horses,"  said  I,  "  the  only  thing 
you  can  do  is  to  come  to  tea  with  us."  So  I  lifted  him 
down  and  bore  him  off  to  the  cowshed  inhabited  by  our 
mess  at  the  time  and  regaled  him  on  chlorinated  Maza- 
wattee,  marmalade  and  dog  biscuit.  An  hour  later, 
Peter  willing,  he  left  us. 


The  Padre  37 

We  saw  a  lot  of  the  Padre  after  that.  Peter,  it 
appeared,  had  taken  quite  a  fancy  to  us  and  frequently 
brought  him  round  to  meals.  The  Padre  had  no  word  of 
say  in  the  matter.  He  confessed  that,  when  he  embarked 
upon  Peter  in  the  morning,  he  had  not  the  vaguest  idea 
where  mid-day  would  find  him.  ^Nothing  but  the  black 
cob's  fortunate  rule  of  going  home  to  supper  saved  the 
Padre  from  being  posted  as  a  deserter. 

He  had  an  uneasy  feeling  that  Peter  would  one  day 
suddenly  sicken  of  the  War  and  that  he  would  find  him- 
self in  Paris  or  on  the  Piviera.  We  had  an  uneasy 
feeling  that  Peter  would  one  day  develop  a  curiosity  as 
to  the  Boche  horse  rations,  and  stroll  across  the  line, 
and  we  should  lose  the  Padre,  a  thing  we  could  ill  afford 
to  do,  for  by  this  time  he  had  taken  us  under  his  wing 
spiritually  and  bodily.  On  Sundays  he  would  appear  in 
our  midst  dragging  a  folding  harmonium  and  hold 
Church  Parade,  leading  the  hymns  in  his  twittering 
bird-like  voice. 

Then  the  spinster  ladies  of  his  old  parish  of  Thorp- 
ington  Parva  gave  him  a  Ford  car,  and  with  this  he 
scoured  back  areas  for  provisions  and  threaded  his  tin 
buggy  in  and  out  of  columns  of  dusty  infantry  and 
clattering  ammunition  limbers,  spectacles  gleaming,  cap 
slightly  awry,  while  his  batman  (a  wag)  perched  pre- 
cariously atop  of  a  rocking  pile  of  biscuit  tins,  cigarette 
cases  and  boxes  of  tinned  fruit,  and  shouted  after  the 
fashion  of  railway  porters,  "  By  your  leave !  Fags 
for  the  firin'  line.  Way  for  the  Woodbine  Ex- 
press." 


38  The  Mud  Larks 

But  if  we  saw  a  lot  of  the  Padre  it  was  the  Antrims 
who  looked  upon  him  as  their  special  property.  They, 
were  line  infantry,  of  the  type  which  gets  most  of  the 
work  and  none  of  the  Press  notices,  a  hard-hitten,  un- 
regenerate  crowd,  who  cared  not  a  whit  whether  Bel- 
gium bled  or  not,  but  loved  fighting  for  its  own  sake 
and  put  their  faith  in  bayonet  and  butt.  And  wherever 
these  Antrims  went,  thither  went  the  Padre  also, 
harmonium  and  his  Woodbines.  I  have  a  story  that, 
when  they  were  in  a  certain  part  of  the  line  where  the 
trenches  were  only  thirty  yards  apart  (so  close  indeed 
that  the  opposing  forces  greeted  each  other  by  their  first 
names  and  borrowed  one  another's  wiring  tools),  the 
Padre  dragged  the  harmonium  into  the  front  line  and 
held  service  there,  and  the  Germans  over  the  way  joined 
lustily  in  the  hymns.  He  kept  the  men  of  the  Antrims 
going  on  canteen  delicacies  and  their  officers  in  a  con- 
stant bubble  of  joy.  He  swallowed  their  tall  stores 
without  a  gulp ;  they  pulled  one  leg  and  he  oifered  the 
other;  he  fell  headlong  into  every  silly  trap  they  set 
for  him.  Also  they  achieved  merit  in  other  messes  by 
peddling  yarns  of  his  wonderful  innocence  and  his 
incredible  absent-mindedness. 

"  Came  to  me  yesterday,  the  Dicky  Bird  did,"  one  of 
them  would  relate ;  "  wanted  advice  about  that  fat 
fraud  of  his,  Peter.  '  He's  got  an  abrasion  on  the  knob 
of  his  right-hand  front  paw/  says  he.  '  Dicky  Bird,' 
says  I,  '  that  is  no  way  to  describe  the  anatomy  of  a 
horse  after  all  the  teaching  I've  given  you.*  '  I  am  so 
forgetful  and  horsy  terras  are  so  confusing,'  he  moans. 


The  Padre  39 

'  Oh,  I  recollect  now — his  starboard  ankle ! '  The  dear 
babe!  " 

In  the  course  of  time  the  Antrims  went  into  the 
Push,  but  on  this  occasion  thej  refused  to  take  the 
Padre  with  them,  explaining  that  Pushes  were  noisy 
affairs,  with  messy  accidents  happening  in  even  the 
best  regulated  battalions. 

The  Padre  was  up  at  midnight  to  see  them  go,  his 
spectacles  misty.  They  went  over  the  bags  at  dawn, 
reached  their  objective  in  twenty  minutes  and  scratched 
themselves  in.  The  Padre  rejoined  them  ten  minutes 
later,  very  badly  winded,  but  bringing  a  case  of  Wood- 
bines along  with  him. 

My  friend  Patrick  grabbed  him  by  the  leg  and 
dragged  him  into  a  shell-hole,  iRothing  but  an  inherent 
respect  for  his  cloth  restrained  Patrick  from  giving  the 
Dicky  Bird  the  spanking  of  his  life.  At  8  a.m.  the 
Hun  countered  heavily  and  hove  the  Antrims  out.  Pat- 
rick retreated  in  good  order,  leading  the  Padre  by  an 
ear.  The  Antrims  sat  down,  licked  their  cuts,  puffed 
some  of  the  Woodbines,  then  went  back  and  pitchforked 
the  Boche  in  his  tender  spots.  The  Boche  collected  fresh 
help  and  bobbed  up  again.  Business  continued  brisk 
all  day,  and  when  night  fell  the  Antrims  were  left 
masters  of  the  position. 

At  1  a.m.  they  were  relieved  by  the  Rutland  Rifles, 
and  a  dog-weary  battered  remnant  of  the  battalion 
crawled  back  to  camp  in  a  sunken  road  a  mile  in  the 
rear.  One  or  two  found  bivouacs  left  by  the  Rutlands, 
but  the  majority  dropped  where  they  halted.    My  friend 


40  The  Mud  Larks 

Patrick  found  a  bivouac,  wormed  into  it  and  went  to 
sleep.  The  next  thing  he  remembers  was  the  roof  of 
his  abode  caving  in  with  the  weight  of  two  men  strug- 
gling violently.  Patrick  extricated  himself  somehow 
and  rolled  out  into  the  grey  dawn  to  find  the  sunken 
road  filled  with  grey  figures,  in  among  the  bivouacs 
and  shell-holes,  stabbing  at  the  sleeping  Antrims.  Here 
and  there  men  were  locked  together,  struggling  tooth 
and  claw;  the  air  was  vibrant  with  a  ghastly  pande- 
monium of  grunts  and  shrieks ;  the  sunken  road  ran  like 
a  slaughter-house  gutter.  There  was  only  one  thing 
to  do,  and  that  was  to  get  out,  so  Patrick  did  so,  driving 
before  him  what  men  he  could  collect. 

A  man  staggered  past  him,  blowing  like  a  walrus. 
It  was  the  Padre's  batman,  and  he  had  his  master 
tucked  under  one  arm,  in  his  underclothes,  kicking 
feebly. 

Patrick  halted  his  men  beyond  the  hill  crest,  and 
there  the  Colonel  joined  him,  trotting  on  his  stockinged 
feet.  Other  officers  arrived,  herding  men.  "  They  must 
have  rushed  the  Ruts.,  Sir,"  Patrick  panted ;  "  must 
be  after  those  guns  just  behind  us."  "  They'll  get  'em 
too,"  said  the  Colonel  grimly.  "  We  can't  stop  'em," 
said  the  Senior  Captain.  "  If  we  counter  at  once  we 
might  give  the  Loamshires  time  to  come  up — they're  in 
support,  Sir — but — but,  if  they  attack  us,  they'll  get 
those  guns — run  right  over  us." 

The  Colonel  nodded.  "Man,  I  know,  I  know;  but 
look  at  'em  " — he  pointed  to  the  pathetic  remnant  of  his 
battalion  lying  out  behind  the  crest — "  they're  dropping 


I 


The  Padre  41 

asleep  where  tbey  lie — they're  beat  to  a  finish — not 
another  kick  left  in  'em." 

He  sat  down  and  buried  his  face  in  his  hands.  The 
redoubtable  Antrims  had  come  to  the  end. 

Suddenly  came  a  shout  from  the  Senior  Captain, 
"  Good  Lord,  what's  that  fellow  after  ?  Who  the  devil 
is  it  ?  " 

They  all  turned  and  saw  a  tiny  figure,  clad  only  in 
underclothes,  marching  deliberately  over  the  ridge  to- 
wards the  Germans. 

"  Who  is  it  ?  "  the  Colonel  repeated.  "  Beggin'  your 
pardon,  the  Reverend,  Sir,"  said  the  Padre's  batman  as 
he  strode  past  the  group  of  officers.  "  'E  give  me  the 
slip.  Sir.  Gawd  knows  wot  'e's  up  to  now."  He  lifted 
up  his  voice  and  wailed  after  his  master,  "  'Ere,  you 
come  back  this  minute,  Sir.  You'll  get  yourself  in 
trouble  again.  Do  you  'ear  me.  Sir  ?  "  But  the  Padre 
apparently  did  not  hear  him,  for  he  plodded  steadily  on 
his  way.  The  batman  gave  a  sob  of  despair  and  broke 
into  a  double. 

The  Colonel  sprang  to  his  feet.  "  Hey,  sto^^  him, 
somebody !  Those  swine'll  shoot  him  in  a  second — child 
murder !  " 

Two  subalterns  ran  forward,  followed  by  a  trio  of 
N.C.O.'s.  All  along  the  line  men  lifted  their  weary 
heads  from  the  ground  and  saw  the  tiny  figure  on  the 
ridge  silhouetted  against  the  red  east. 

"Go's  that  blinkin' fool?" 

"  The  Padre." 

"Wot's'edoin'of?" 


42  The  Mud  Larks 

"  Gawd  knows." 

A  man  rose  to  his  knees,  from  his  knees  to  his  feet, 
and  stumbled  forward,  mumbling,  "  'E  give  me  a  packet 
of  fags  when  I  was  broke."  "  Me  too,"  growled  another, 
and  followed  his  chum.  "  They'll  shoot  'im  in  a  min- 
ute," a  voice  shouted,  suddenly  frightened.  "  'Ere,  this 
ain't  war,  this  is  blasted  baby-killin'." 

In  another  five  seconds  the  whole  line  was  up  and 
jogging  forAvard  at  a  lurching  double.  "  And  a  little 
child  shall  lead  them,"  murmured  the  Colonel  happily, 
as  he  put  his  best  sock  forwards;  a  miracle  had 
happened,  and  his  dear  ruffians  would  go  down  in 
glory. 

But  as  they  topped  the  hill  crest,  came  the  shrill  of 
a  whistle  from  the  opposite  ridge,  and  there  was  half  a 
battalion  of  the  Rutlands  back  casting  for  the  enemy 
that  had  broken  through  their  posts.  With  wild  yells 
both  parties  charged  downwards  into  the  sunken  road. 

When  the  tumult  and  shouting  had  died  Patrick 
went  in  quest  of  the  little  Padre. 

He  discovered  him  sitting  on  the  wreck  of  his  bivouac 
of  the  night ;  he  was  clasping  some  small  article  to  his 
bosom,  and  the  look  on  his  face  was  that  of  a  man  who 
had  found  his  heart's  desire. 

Patrick  sat  himself  down  on  a  box  of  bombs,  and 
looked  humbly  at  the  Reverend  Paul.  It  is  an  awful 
thing  for  a  man  suddenly  to  find  he  has  been  entertain- 
ing a  hero  unawares. 

"  Oh,  Dicky  Bird,  Dicky  Bird,  why  did  you  do  it  ? " 
he  inquired  softly. 


The  Padre  43 

The  Padre  cocked  his  head  on  one  side  and  com- 
menced to  ooze  apologies  from  every  pore. 

"  Oh  dear — you  know  how  absurdly  absent-minded  I 
am;  well,  I  suddenly  remembered  I  had  left  my  teeth 
behind." 


44  The  Mud  Larks 


VII 
THE  EIDIl^G-MASTER 

THE  scene  is  a  School  of  Instruction  at  tlie  back  of 
the  Western  Front  set  in  a  valley  of  green  meadows 
bordered  by  files  of  plumy  poplars,  and  threaded  through 
by  a  silver  ribbon  of  water. 

On  the  lazy  afternoon  breeze  come  the  concerted  yells 
of  a  bayonet  class,  practising  frightfulness  further  down 
the  valley ;  also  the  staccato  chatter  of  Lewis  guns  punch- 
ing holes  in  the  near  hillside. 

In  the  centre  of  one  meadow  is  a  turf  manege.  In 
the  centre  of  the  manege  stands  the  villain  of  the  piece, 
the  Riding-Master. 

He  wears  a  crown  on  his  sleeve,  tight  breeches,  jack- 
boots, vicious  spurs  and  sable  moustachios.  His  right 
hand  toys  with  a  long,  long  whip,  his  left  with  his  sable 
moustachios.  He  looks  like  Diavolo,  the  lion-tamer, 
about  to  put  his  man-eating  chums  through  hoops  of  fire. 

His  victims,  a  dozen  infantry  officers,  circle  slowly 
round  the  manege.  They  are  mounted  on  disillusioned 
cavalry  horses  who  came  out  with  Wellington  and  know 
a  thing  or  two.  iNow  and  again  they  wink  at  the  Riding- 
Master  and  he  winks  back  at  them. 

The  audience  consists  of  an  ancient  Gaul  in  pictur- 
esque blue  pants,  whose  metier  is  to  totter  round  the 
meadows  brushing  flies  off  a  piebald  cow;  the  School 


The  Riding-Master  45 

Padre,  who  keeps  at  long  range  so  that  he  may  see  the 
sport  without  hearing  the  language,  and  ten  little 
gamins,  who  have  been  splashing  in  the  silver  stream 
and  are  now  sitting  drying  on  the  bank  like  ten  little 
toads. 

They  come  every  afternoon,  for  never  have  they  seen 
such  fun,  never  since  the  great  days  before  the  War 
when  the  circus  with  the  boxing  kangaroo  and  the  edu- 
cated porks  came  to  town. 

Suddenly  the  Kiding-Master  clears  his  throat.  At 
the  sound  thereof  the  horses  coek  their  ears  and  their 
riders  grab  handfulls  of  leather  and  hair. 

R.-M.  "  Now,  gentlemen,  mind  the  word.  Gently 
away — tra-a-a-at."  The  horses  break  into  a  slow  jog- 
trot and  the  cavaliers  into  a  cold  perspiration.  The  ten 
little  gamins  cheer  delightedly. 

R.-M.  "  Sit  down,  sit  up,  'ollow  yer  backs,  keep 
the  hands  down,  backs  foremost,  even  pace.  Number 
Two,  Sir,  'ollow  yer  back;  don't  sit  'unched  up  like 
you'd  over-ate  yourself.  Number  Seven,  don't  throw 
yerself  about  in  that  drunken  manner,  you'll  miss  the 
saddle  altogether  presently,  coming  down — can't  expect 
the  'orse  to  catch  you  every  time. 

"  Number  Three,  don't  flap  yer  helbows  like  an  'en; 
you  ain't  laid  an  hegg,  'ave  you  ? 

"  'Ollow  yer  backs,  'eads  up,  'eels  down ;  four  feet 
from  nose  to  croup. 

"  Number  One,  keep  yer  feet  back,  you'll  be  kickin' 
that  mare's  teeth  out,  you  will. 


46  The  Mud  Larks 

"  Come  down  off  'is  'ead,  Number  Seven ;  this  ain't 
a  monkey-'ouse. 

"  Keep  a  light  an'  even  feelin'  of  both  reins,  backs 
of  the  'ands  foremost,  four  feet  from  nose  to  croup. 

"  Leggo  that  mare's  tail,  iNumber  Seven ;  you're 
goin',  not  comin',  and  any'ow  that  mare  likes  to  keep 
'er  tail  to  'erself.  You've  upset  'er  now,  the  tears  is 
fair  streamin'  down  'er  face — 'ave  a  bit  of  feelin'  for 
a  pore  dumb  beast. 

"  'Ollow  yer  backs,  even  pace,  grip  with  the  knees, 
shorten  yer  reins,  four  feet  from  nose  to  croup.  Num- 
ber Eight,  restrain  yerself,  me  lad,  restrain  yerself,  you 
ain't  shadow-sparrin',  you  know. 

"  You  too.  Number  Nine ;  if  you  don't  calm  yer 
action  a  bit  you'll  burst  somethin'. 

"  Now,  remember,  a  light  feelin'  of  the  right  rein 
and  pressure  of  the  left  leg.  Ride — ^wa-a-alk!  Ri' — 
tur-r-rn !  'Alt — 'pare  to  s'mount — s'mount !  Dis- 
mount, I  said.  Number  Five;  that  means  get  down. 
No,  don't  dismount  on  the  flat  of  yer  back,  me  lad,  it 
don't  look  nice.  Try  to  remember  you're  an  horfficer 
and  be  more  dignified. 

"  Now  listen  to  me  while  I  enumerate  the  parts  of  a 
norse  in  language  so  simple  any  bloomin'  fool  can  under- 
stand. This'll  be  useful  to  you,  for  if  you  ever  'ave  a 
norse  to  deal  with  and  he  loses  one  of  'is  parts  you'll 
know  'ow  to  indent  for  a  new  one. 

"  The  'orse  'as  two  ends,  a  fore-end — so  called  from 
its  tendency  to  go  first,  and  an  'ind-end  or  rear  rank. 
The  'orse  is  provided  with  two  legs  at  each  end,  which 


The  Riding-Master  47 

can  be  easily  distinguished,  the  fore  legs  being  straight 
and  the  'ind  legs  'avin'  kinks  in  'em. 

"  As  the  'orse  does  seventy-five  per  cent  of  'is  dirty 
work  with  'is  'ind-legs  it  is  advisable  to  keep  clear  of 
'em,  rail  'em  off  or  strap  boxing-gloves  on  'em.  The  legs 
of  the  'orse  is  very  delicate  and  liable  to  crock  up,  so  do 
not  try  to  trim  off  any  unsightly  knobs  that  may  appear 
on  them  with  a  hand-axe — a  little  of  that  'as  been  known 
to  sour  a  norse  for  good. 

"  Next  we  come  to  the  'ead.  On  the  south  side  of 
the  'ead  we  discover  the  mouth.  The  'orse's  mouth  was 
constructed  for  mincing  'is  victuals,  also  for  'is  rider 
to  'ang  on  by.  As  the  'orse  does  the  other  forty-five 
per  cent  of  'is  dirty  work  with  'is  mouth  it  is  advisable 
to  stand  clear  of  that  as  well.  In  fact,  what  with  his 
mouth  at  one  end  and  'is  'ind-legs  at  t'other,  the  middle 
of  the  'orse  is  about  the  only  safe  spot,  and  that  is  why 
we  place  the  saddle  there.  Everything  in  the  Harmy  is 
done  with  a  reason,  gentlemen. 

"  And  now,  Number  ten,  tell  me  what  coloured  'orse 
you  are  ridin'  ? 

"  A  chestnut  ?  No,  'e  ain't  no  chestnut  and  never  was, 
no,  nor  a  raspberry  roan  neither ;  'e's  a  bay.  'Ow  often 
must  I  tell  you  that  a  chestnut  'orse  is  the  colour  of 
lager  beer,  a  brown  'orse  the  colour  of  draught  ale,  and 
a  black  'orse  the  colour  of  stout. 

"  And  now,  gentlemen,  stan'  to  yer  'orses,  'pare  to 
mount — mount ! 

"  There  you  go,  Number  Seven,  up  one  side  and 
down  the  other.    Try  to  stop  in  the  saddle  for  a  minute 


48  The  Mud  Larks 

if  only  for  the  view.  You'll  get  yourself  'urted  one 
of  these  days  dashing  about  all  over  the  'orse  like  that; 
and  s'posing  you  was  to  break  your  neck,  who'd  get  into 
trouble  ?  Me,  not  you.  'Ave  a  bit  of  consideration  for 
other  people,  please. 

"  Now  mind  the  word.  Ride — ri' — tur-r-rn.  Walk 
march.  Tr-a-a-at.  Helbows  slightly  brushing  the  ribs 
— your  ribs,  not  the  'orse's,  Number  Three. 

"  Shorten  yer  reins,  'eels  down,  'eads  up,  'ollow  yer 
backs,  four  feet  from  nose  to  croup. 

"  Get  off  that  mare's  neck,  Number  Seven,  and  try 
ridin'  in  the  saddle  for  a  change ;  it'll  be  more  comfort- 
able for  everybody. 

"  You  oughter  do  cowboy  stunts  for  the  movin'  pic- 
tures. Number  Six,  you  ought  really.  People  would  pay 
money  to  see  you  ride  a  norse  upside  down  like  that. 
Got  a  strain  of  wild  Cossack  blood  in  you,  eh  ? 

"  There  you  are,  now  you've  been  and  fell  off.  Nice 
way  to  repay  me  for  all  the  patience  an'  learning  I've 
given  you ! 

"  What  are  you  lyin'  there  for  ?  Day  dreaming  ?  I 
s'pose  you're  goin'  to  tell  me  you're  'urted  now?  Be 
writing  'ome  to  Mother  about  it  next:  'Dear  Ma, — A 
mad  mustang  'as  trod  on  me  stummick.  Please  send  me 
a  gold  stripe.    Your  loving  child,  Algy.' 

"  Now  mind  the  word.     Eide — can — ter !  " 

He  cracks  his  whip ;  the  horses  throw  up  their  heads 
and  break  into  a  canter;  the  cavaliers  turn  pea-green 
about  the  chops,  let  go  the  reins  and  clutch  saddle- 
pommels. 


I 


The  Riding-Master  49 

The  leading  horse,  a  rakish  chestnut,  finding  his  head 
free  at  last  and  being  heartily  fed-up  with  the  whole 
business,  suddenly  bolts  out  of  the  manege  and  legs  it 
across  the  meadow,  en  route  for  stables  and  tea.  His 
eleven  mates  stream  in  his  wake,  emptying  saddles  as 
they  go. 

The  ten  little  gamins  dance  ecstatically  upon  the  bank, 
waving  their  shirts  and  shrilling  "A  Berlin!  A  Ber- 
lin!" 

The  ancient  Gaul  props  himself  up  against  the  pie- 
bald cow  and  shakes  his  ancient  head.  "  C'est  la 
guerre/'  he  croaks. 

The  deserted  Riding-Master  damns  his  eyes  and 
blesses  his  soul  for  a  few  moments;  then  sighs  re- 
signedly, takes  a  cigarette  from  his  cap  lining,  lights  it 
and  waddles  o£F  towards  the  village  and  his  favourite 
estaminet. 


50  The  Mud  Larks 

VIII 
NATIONAL  ANTHEM 

OUT  here  the  telephone  exists  largely  as  a  vehicle 
for  the  jeux  d^ esprit  of  the  Brass  Lids.  It  is  a  one- 
way affair,  working  only  from  the  inside  out,  for  if  you 
have  a  trifle  of  repartee  to  impart  to  the  Brazen  Ones, 
the  apparatus  is  either  indefinitely  engaged,  or  Na  poo 
(as  the  French  say).  If  you  are  one  of  these  bulldog 
lads  and  are  determined  to  make  the  thing  talk  from 
the  outside  in,  you  had  better  migrate  cliez  Signals,  tak- 
ing your  bed,  blankets,  beer,  tobacco  and  the  unexpired 
portion  of  next  week's  ration,  and  camp  at  the  telephone 
orderly's  elbow.  After  a  day  or  two  it  will  percolate 
through  to  the  varlet's  intelligence  that  you  are  a  des- 
perate dog  in  urgent  need  of  something,  and  he  will 
bestir  himself,  and  mayhap  in  a  further  two  or  three 
days'  time  he  will  wind  a  crank,  pull  some  strings,  and 
announce  that  you  are  "  on,"  and  you  will  find  yourself 
in  animated  conversation  with  an  inspector  of  cemeter- 
ies, a  jam  expert  at  the  Base,  or  the  Dalai  Lama.  If 
you  want  to  give  back-chat  to  the  Staff  you  had  best 
take  it  there  by  hand. 

A  friend  of  mine  by  name  of  Patrick  once  got  the 
job  of  Temporary  Assistant  Deputy  Lance  Staff  Cap- 
tain (unpaid),  and  before  he  tumbled  to  the  one-way 
idea,  his  telephone  worked  both  ways  and  gave  him  a 


National  Anthem  51 

lot  of  trouble.  People  were  always  calling  him  up  and 
asking  him  questions,  which  of  course  wasn't  playing 
the  game  at  all.  Sometimes  he  never  got  to  bed  before 
10  p.m.,  answering  questions;  often  he  was  up  again  at 
9  a.m.,  answering  more  questions — and  such  questions! 

A  sample.  On  one  occasion  he  rang  up  his  old  bat- 
talion. One  Jimmy  was  then  Acting  Assistant  Vice- 
Adjutant.  "  Hello,  wazzeraiatter  ? "  said  Jimmy. 
"  Staff  Captain  speaking,"  said  Patrick  sternly. 
"  Please  furnish  a  return  of  all  cooks,  smoke-helmets, 
bombs,  mules,  Yukon  packs,  tin  bowlers,  grease-traps 
and  Plymouth  Brothers  you  have  in  the  field !  " 

"  Easy — beg  pardon,  yes.  Sir,"  said  Jimmy  and 
hung  up. 

Presently  the  'phone  buzzed  and  there  was  Jimmy 
again. 

"  Excuse  me.  Sir,  but  you  wanted  a  return  of  various 
commodities  we  have  in  the  field.    What  field  ?  " 

"  Oh,  the  field  of  Mars,  fat-head !  "  Patrick  snapped 
and  rang  off.  A  quarter  of  an  hour  later  he  was  called 
to  the  'phone  once  more  and  the  familiar  bleat  of 
Jimmy  tickled  his  ear.  "  Excuse  me,  Sir — whose 
mother  ? '" 

On  the  other  hand  the  great  Brass  Hat  is  human  and 
makes  a  slip,  a  clerical  error,  now  and  again,  sufficient 
to  expose  his  flank.  And  then  the  humble  fighting  man 
can  draw  his  drop  of  blood  if  he  is  quick  about  it.  To 
this  same  long-suffering  Jimmy  was  vouchsafed  the 
heaven-sent  opportunity,  and  he  leapt  at  it.  He  got  a 
chit  from  H.Q.,  dated  6/7/17,  which  ran  thus: — 


52  The  Mud  Larks 

"  In  reference  to  17326  Pte.  Hogan  we  note  that  his 
date  of  birth  is  10/7/17.  Please  place  him  in  his 
proper  category/' 

To  which  Jimmy  replied : — 

"  As  according  to  your  showing  17326  Pte.  Hogan 
will  not  be  born  for  another  four  days  we  are  placed 
in  a  position  of  some  difficulty. 

Signed 

"  P.S. — ^What  if,  when  the  interesting  event  occurs 
17326  Pte.  Hogan  should  be  a  girl  ? 

"P.S.S.— Or  twins?" 

Our  Albert  Edward  is  just  back  from  one  of  those 
Army  finishing  schools  where  the  young  subaltern's 
knowledge  of  Shakespeare  and  the  use  of  the  globes  is 
given  a  final  shampoo  before  he  is  pushed  over  the  top. 
Albert  Edward's  academy  was  situated  in  a  small  town 
where  schools  are  maintained  by  all  our  brave  Allies ;  it 
is  an  educational  centre.  The  Erench  school  does  the 
honours  of  the  place  and  keeps  a  tame  band,  which 
gives  tongue  every  Sunday  evening  in  the  Grand  Place. 
Thither  repair  all  the  young  ladies  of  the  town  to  hear 
the  music.  Thither  also  repair  all  the  young  subalterns, 
also  for  the  purpose  of  hearing  the  music. 

At  the  end  of  every  performance  the  national  an- 
thems of  all  our  brave  Allies  are  played,  each  brave 
Ally  standing  rigidly  to  attention  the  while,  in  compli- 
ment to  the  others.  As  we  have  a  lot  of  brave  Allies 
these  days,  all  with  long  national  war-whoops,  this  be- 
comes somewhat  of  a  strain. 


National  Anthem  53 

One  morning  the  French  bandmaster  called  on  the 
Commandant  of  the  English  school. 

"  Some  Americans  have  arrived,"  said  he.  "  They 
are  naturally  as  welcome  as  the  sunshine,  but "  (he 
sighed)  "  it  means  yet  another  national  anthem." 

The  Commandant  sighed  and  said  he  supposed  so. 

"  By  the  way,"  said  the  chef  d'orchestre,  "  what  is 
the  American  national  anthem  ?  " 

"  '  Yankee  Doodle,'  "  replied  the  Commandant. 

The  Chief  Instructor  said  he'd  always  understood  it 
was  "  Hail,  Columbia." 

The  Adjutant  was  of  the  opinion  that  "  The  Star- 
Spangled  Banner  "  filled  the  bill,  while  the  Quarter- 
master cast  his  vote  for  "  My  Country,  'tis  of  thee." 

The  chef  d'orchestre  thrashed  his  bosom  and  rent  his 
coiffure.  "  Dieu!  "  he  wailed,  "  I  can't  play  all  of  them 
— figurez-vous  I " 

Without  stopping  to  do  any  figuring  they  heartily 
agreed  that  he  couldn't.  "  Tell  you  what,"  said  the 
Commandant  at  length,  "  write  to  your  music  merchant 
in  Paris  and  leave  it  to  him." 

The  chef  d'orchestre  said  he  would,  and  did  so. 

^ext  Sunday  evening,  as  the  concert  drew  to  a  close, 
the  band  flung  into  the  Marseillaise,  and  the  subalterns 
of  all  nations  leapt  to  attention.  They  stood  to  attention 
through  "  God  Save  the  King,"  through  the  national 
anthems  of  Russia,  Italy,  Portugal,  Rumania,  Serbia, 
Belgium,  Montenegro  and  Monte  Carlo,  all  our 
brave  Allies.  Then  the  chef  d'orchestre  suddenly  sprang 
upon  a  stool  and  waved  above  his  head  the  stripes  and 


54  The  Mud  Larks 

stars,  of  our  newest  brave  Ally,  while  the  band  crashed 
into  the  opening  strains  of  "  When  the  midnight  choo- 
choo  starts  for  Alabam."  It  speaks  volumes  for  the 
discipline  of  the  Allied  armies  that  their  young  subal- 
terns stood  to  attention  even  through  that. 


Horse  Sense  55 

IX 

HOESE  SENSE 

Time — ISTight 

Scene. — A  shell-pitted  plain  and  a  cavalry  regiment 
under  canvas  thereon.  It  is  not  yet  " Lights  out" 
and  on  the  right  hand  the  semi-transparent  tents 
and  bivouacs  glow  like  giant  Chinese  lanterns  in- 
habited by  shadow  figures.  From  an  Officers'  mess 
tent  comes  the  twinkle  of  a  gramophone,  rendering 
classics  from  "  Keep  Smiling,"  In  a  bivouac  an 
opposition  mouth-organ  saws  at  "  The  Rosary." 
On  the  left  hand  is  a  darh  mass  of  horses,  picketed 
in  parallel  lines.  They  lounge,  hips  drooping, 
heads  low,  in  a  pleasant  after-dinner  doze.  The 
Chiard  lolls  against  a  post,  lantern  at  his  feet,  dron- 
ing a  fitful  accompaniment  to  the  distant  mouth- 
organ.  "  The  hours  I  spent  wiv  thee,  dear  'eart, 
are — Stan'  still.  Ginger — like  a  string  of  pearls  ter 
me — ee  .  .  .  Grrr,  Nellie,  stop  kickin' ! "  The 
range  of  desolate  hills  in  the  background  is  flicker- 
ing with  gun-flashes  and  grumbling  with  drum-fire 
— the  Boche  evensong. 

A  bay  horse  {shifting  his  weight  from  one  leg  to  the 
other).    Somebody's  catching  it  in  the  neck  to-night. 


56  The  Mud  Larks 

A  chestnut.  Yep.  l!^ow  if  this  was  1914,  with  that 
racket  loose,  we'd  be  standing  to. 

A  gunpack  horse.    Why  ? 

Chestnut.  "Wind  up,  sonny.  "Why  in  1914  our  sad- 
dles grew  into  our  backs  like  the  ivy  and  the  oak.  In 
1914 

A  Hack  horse.  Oh,  dry  up  about  1914,  old  soldier; 
tell  us  about  the  Battle  of  Hastings  and  how  you  came  to 
let  "William's  own  Mounted  Blunderbusses  run  all  over 
you. 

A  hay  horse.  Yes,  and  how  you  gave  the  field  ten 
stone  and  a  beating  in  the  retreat  to  Corunna.  What 
are  your  personal  recollections  of  Xapoleon,  Rufus  ? 

Chestnut.    You  blinkin'  conscripts,  you ! 

Black.  Shiss!  no  bad  language,  Rufus — ^ladies 
present. 

Chestnut.  Ladies,  huh.  Behave  nice  and  ladylike 
when  they  catch  sight  of  the  nosebags,  don't  they  ? 

A  skewbald  mare.  Well,  we  gotta  stand  up  for  our 
rights. 

Chestnut.  'Struth  you  do,  tooth  and  hoof.  What 
Were  you  in  civil  life,  Baby  ?    A  Suffragette  ? 

Skeivhald.    'No,  I  wasn't,  so  there. 

Bay.  ISTo,  she  was  a  footlights  favourite;  wore  her 
mane  in  plaits  and  a  star-spangled  bearing-rein  and 
surcingle  to  improve  her  fig-u-are;  did  pretty  parlour 
tricks  to  the  strains  of  the  banjo  and  psaltery.  N'est- 
ce  pas,  cherie? 

Skeivhald.    Well,  what  if  I  did  ?    There's  scores  of 


Horse  Sense  57 

circus  gals  is  puffect  Ijdies.  I  don't  require  none  of 
your  familiarity  any'ow,  Mister. 

Bay.  Beg  pardon.  Excuse  my  bluff  soldierly  ways ; 
but  nevertheless  take  your  nose  out  of  my  bay  net,  please. 

A  Canadian  dun.  Gee !  quit  weavin'  about  like  that, 
Tubby.  Can't  you  let  a  guy  get  some  sleep.  I'll  hand 
you  a  cold  rebuff  in  the  ribs  in  a  minute.  Wazzer  mat- 
ter with  you,  anyhow  ? 

Tubby.    Had  a  bad  dream. 

Black.    Don't  wonder,  the  way  you  over-eat  yourself. 

Bay.  'Ever  know  a  Quartermaster's  horse  that  didn't? 
He's  the  only  one  that  gets  the  chance. 

Skewbald.    And  the  Officers'  chargers. 

Voice  from  over  the  way.  Well,  we  need  it,  don't  we  ? 
We  do  all  the  bally  headwork. 

Bay.  Hearken  even  unto  the  Honourable  Mont- 
morency. Hello,  Monty  there !  l^ever  mind  about  the 
bally  headwork,  but  next  time  you're  out  troop-leading 
try  to  steer  a  course  somewhat  approaching  the  straight. 
You  had  the  line  opening  and  shutting  like  a  concertina 
this  morning. 

An  iron-grey.  Begob,  and  that's  the  holy  truth !  I 
thought  my  ribs  was  goin'  ivery  minnut,  an'  me  man 
was  cursin'  nndher  his  breath  the  way  you'd  hear  him 
a  mile  away.  Ye've  no  more  idea  of  a  straight  line, 
Monty  avic,  than  a  crab  wid  dhrink  taken. 

Monty.     Sorry,  but  the  flies  were  giving  me  gyp. 

Canadian  dun.  Flies  ?  Say,  but  you  greenhorns  make 
me  smile.    Why,  out  West  we  got  flies  that 

Iron  grey.     Och  sure  we've  heard  all  about  thim. 


58  The  Mud  Larks 

'Tis  as  big  as  bulldogs  they  are;  iverj  time  they  bite 
you  you  lose  a  limb.  Many  a  time  the  traveller  has 
observed  thim  flyin'  away  wid  a  foal  in  their  jaws,  the 
rapparees !  P'  all  that  I  do  be  remarkin'  that  whin  one 
of  the  effete  European  variety  is  afther  ticklin'  you  in 
the  short  hairs  you  step  very  free  an'  flippant,  Johnny, 
acushla. 

A  brown  horse.  Say,  Monty,  old  top,  any  news? 
You've  got  a  pal  at  G.H.Q.,  haven't  you  ? 

Monti/.  Oh,  yes,  my  young  brother.  He's  got  a  job 
on  Haig's  personal  Staif  now,  wears  a  red  brow-band 
and  all  that — ahem !  Of  course  he  tells  me  a  thing  or 
two  when  we  meet,  but  in  the  strictest  confidence,  you 
understand. 

Brown.  Quite;  but  did  he  say  anything  about  the 
end  of  the  War  ? 

Monty.  Well,  not  precisely,  that  is  not  exactly,  ex- 
cepting that  he  says  that  it's  pretty  certain  now  that  it 
— er — well,  that  it  will  end. 

Brown.    That's  good  news.    Thanks,  Monty. 

Monty.    Not  a  bit,  old  thing.    Don't  mention  it. 

Iron-grey.  'Tis  a  great  comfort  to  us  to  know  that 
the  War  will  ind,  if  not  in  our  day,  annyway  sometime. 

Canadian  dun.  You  bet.  Gee,  I  wish  it  was  all 
over  an'  I  was  home  in  the  foothills  with  the  brown 
wool  and  pink  prairie  roses  underfoot,  and  the  Chinook 
layin'  my  mane  over. 

Iron-grey.  Faith,  but  the  County  Cork  would  suit 
me  completely;  a  roomy  loose-box  wid  straw  litter  an' 
a  leak-proof  roof. 


Horse  Sense  59 

Tubhrj.     Yes,  with  full  meals  coming  regularly. 

A  hay  mare.  I've  got  a  two-year-old  in  Devon  I'd 
like  to  see  again. 

Monty.     I've  no  quarrel  with  Leicestershire  myself. 

Gunpack  horse.    Garn !    Wot  abaht  good  old  London  ? 

Chestnut.  Steady,  Alf,  what  are  you  grousing  about  ? 
You  never  had  a  full  meal  in  your  life  until  Lord 
Derby  pulled  you  out  of  that  coster  barrow  and  pushed 
you  into  the  Army. 

Tubhy.    A  full  meal  in  the  Army — help! 

Brown.  Listen  to  our  living  skeleton.  Do  you  chaps 
remember  that  afternoon  he  had  to  himself  in  an  oat 
field  up  Plug  Street  way?  When  the  grooms  found 
him  he  was  lying  on  his  back,  legs  in  the  air,  blown 
up  like  a  poisoned  pup.  "  Blimy,"  says  one  lad  to 
t'other,  "  'ere's  one  of  our  observation  bladders  the 
'Un  'as  brought  down." 

Chestnut.  I  heard  the  Officer  boy  telling  the  Troop 
Sergeant  that  he'd  buy  a  haystack  some  day  and  try  to 
burst  you,  Tubby.  The  Sergeant  bet  him  a  month's 
pay  it  couldn't  be  done. 

Tubhy.    Just  because  I've  got  a  healthy  appetite 

Brown.  Healthy  appetites  aren't  being  worn  this 
season.  Sir — bad  form.  How  are  the  politicians'  park 
hacks  to  be  kept  sleek  if  the  troop-horse  don't  tighten 
his  girth  a  bit?  Be  patriotic,  old  dear;  eat  less 
oats. 

Chestnut.  That  mess  gramophone  must  be  redhot  by 
now.  It's  been  running  continuous  since  First  Post. 
I  suppose  somebody's  mamma  has  sent  him  a  bottle  of 


6o  The  Mud  Larks 

ginger-pop,  and  they're  seeing  life  while  the  bubbles 
last. 

Monty.  Yes,  and  I  suppose  my  young  gentleman  will 
be  parading  to-morrow  morning  with  a  camouflage  tunic 
over  his  pyjamas,  looking  to  me  to  pull  him  through 
squadron  drill. 

Iron-grey.     God  save  us,  thin ! 

A  Mexican  roan.     Buenas  noches! 

OunpacTc  horse.  Hish!  Orderly  Officer.  'E's  in 
the  Fourth  Troop  lines  nah;  you  can  'ear  'im  cursin' 
as  he  trips  over  the  heel  shackles. 

Monty.  Hush,  you  fellows.  Orderly  Officer.  Bong 
swar. 

Once  more  Tieads  and  hips  droop.  They  pose  in 
attitudes  of  sleep  like  a  dormitory  of  small  hoys 
on  the  approach  of  a  prefect.  The  line  Guard 
comes  to  life,  seizes  his  lantern  and  commences  to 
march  up  and  down  as  if  salvation  depended  on 
his  getting  in  so  many  laps  to  the  hour.  From  the 
guard-tent  a  trumpet  wails,  ''Lights  out." 


''  Convey,"  the  Wise  It  Call  6i 


"  CONVEY,"  THE  WISE  IT  CALL 

I  AM  living  at  present  in  one  of  those  villages  in 
which  the  retreating  Hun  has  left  no  stone  unturned. 
With  characteristic  thoroughness  he  fired  it  first,  then 
blew  it  up,  and  has  been  shelling  it  ever  since.  What 
with  one  thing  and  another,  it  is  in  an  advanced  state  of 
dilapidation;  in  fact,  if  it  were  not  that  one  has  the 
map's  word  for  it,  and  a  notice  perched  on  a  heap  of 
brick-dust  saying  that  the  Towti  Major  may  be  found 
within,  the  casual  wayfarer  might  imagine  himself  in 
the  Sahara,  Kalahari,  or  the  south  end  of  Kingsway. 

Some  of  these  French  towns  are  very  diflScult  to 
recognise  as  such;  only  the  trained  detective  can  do  it. 
A  certain  Irish  regiment  was  presented  with  the  job 
of  capturing  one.  The  scheme  was  roughly  this.  They 
were  to  climb  the  parapet  at  5.25  a.m.  and  rush  a  quarry 
some  one  hundred  yards  distant.  After  half  an  hour's 
breather  they  were  to  go  on  to  some  machine-gun  em- 
placements, dispose  of  these,  wait  a  further  twenty 
minutes,  and  then  take  the  town.  Distance  barely  one 
thousand  yards  in  all.  Promptly  at  zero  the  whole  field 
spilled  over  the  bags,  as  the  field  spills  over  the  big 
double  at  Punchestown,  paused  at  the  quarry  only  long 
enough  to  change  feet  on  the  top,  and  charged  yelling 
at  the  machine-guns.    Then  being  still  full  of  fun  and 


62  The  Mud  Larks 

joie  de  vivre,  and  having  no  officers  left  to  hamper  their 
fine  flowing  style,  they  ducked  through  their  own  bar- 
rage and  raced  all  out  for  the  final  objective.  Twenty 
minutes  later,  tw'o  miles  further  on,  one  perspiring 
private  turned  to  his  panting  chum,  "  For  the  love  or 
Grod,  Mike,  aren't  we  getting  in  the  near  of  this  damn 
town  yet  ? " 

I  have  a  vast  respect  for  Hindenburg  (a  man  who  can 
drink  the  mixtures  he  does,  and  still  sit  up  and  smile 
Bunnily  into  the  jaws  of  a  camera  ten  times  a  day,  is 
worthy  of  anybody's  veneration),  but  if  he  thought  that 
by  blowing  these  poor  little  French  villages  into  small 
smithereens  he  would  deprive  the  B.E.F.  of  head-cover 
and  cause  it  to  catch  cold  and  trot  home  to  mother,  he 
will  have  to  sit  up  late  and  do  some  more  thinking.  For 
Atkins  of  to-day  is  a  knowing  bird ;  he  can  make  a  little 
go  the  whole  distance  and  conjure  plenty  out  of  nothing- 
ness. As  for  cover,  two  bricks  and  his  shrapnel  hat 
make  a  very  passable  pavilion.  Goodness  knows  it 
would  puzzle  a  guinea-pig  to  render  itself  inconspicuous 
in  our  village,  yet  I  have  watched  battalion  after  battal- 
ion march  into  it  and  be  halted  and  dismissed.  Half 
an  hour  later  there  is  not  a  soul  to  be  seen.  They  have 
all  gone  to  ground.  My  groom  and  countryman  went  in 
search  of  wherewithal  to  build  a  shelter  for  the  horses. 
He  saw  a  respectable  plank  sticking  out  of  a  heap  of 
debris,  laid  hold  on  it  and  pulled.  Then — to  quote  him 
vei-haiim — "  there  came  a  great  roarin'  from  in  under- 
nath  of  it,  Sor,  an'  a  black  divil  of  an  infantryman 
shoved  his  head  up  through  the  bricks  an'  drew  down 


"  Convey,"  the  Wise  It  Call  63 

sivin  curses  on  me  for  pullin'  the  roof  off  his  house. 
Then  he's  afther  throwin'  a  bomb  at  me,  Sor,  so  I  came 
away.  Ye  wouldn't  be  knowin'  where  to  put  your  fut 
dowTi  in  this  place,  Sor,  for  the  dhread  of  treadin'  in  the 
belly  of  an  officer  an'  him  aslape." 

Some  people  have  the  bungalow  mania  and  build 
them  hijoux  maisonettes  out  of  biscuit  tins,  sacking  and 
whatnot,  but  the  majority  go  to  ground.  I  am  one  of 
the  majority;  I  go  to  ground  like  a  badger,  for  experi- 
ence has  taught  me  that  a  dug-out — cramped,  damp, 
dark  though  it  may  be — cannot  be  stolen  from  you  w^hile 
you  sleep ;  that  is  to  say,  thieves  cannot  come  along  in 
the  middle  of  the  night,  dig  it  up  bodily  by  the  roots 
and  cart  it  away  in  a  G.S.  waggon  without  you,  the 
occupant,  being  aware  that  some  irregularity  is  occur- 
ring to  the  home.  On  the  other  hand,  in  this  country, 
where  the  warrior,  when  he  falls  on  sleep  suffers  a  sort 
of  temporary  death,  bungalows  can  be  easily  purloined 
from  round  about  him  without  his  knowledge ;  and  what 
is  more,  frequently  are. 

For  instance,  a  certain  bungalow  in  our  village  was 
stolen  as  frequently  as  three  times  in  one  night.  This 
was  the  way  of  it.  One  Todd,  a  foot-slogging  lieuten- 
ant, foot-slogged  into  our  midst  one  day,  borrowed  a  hole 
from  a  local  rabbit,  and  took  up  his  residence  therein. 
Now  this  mud-pushing  Todd  had  a  cousin  in  the  same 
division,  one  of  those  highly  trained  specialists  who 
trickle  about  the  country  shedding  coils  of  barbed  wire 
and  calling  them  "  dumps  " — a  sapper,  in  short.  One 
afternoon  the  sapping  Todd,  finding  some  old  sheets  of 


64  The  Mud  Larks 

corrugated  iron  that  he  had  neglected  to  dump,  sent 
them  over  to  his  gravel-grinding  cousin  with  his  love  and 
the  request  of  a  loan  of  a  dozen  of  soda.  The  earth- 
pounding  Todd  came  out  of  his  hole,  gazed  on  the  cor- 
rugated iron  and  saw  visions,  dreamed  dreams.  He 
handed  the  hole  back  to  the  rabbit  and  set  to  work  to 
evolve  a  bungalow.  By  evening  it  was  complete.  He 
crawled  within  and  went  to  sleep,  slept  like  a  drugged 
dormouse.  At  10  p.m.  a  squadron  of  the  Shetland 
ponies  (for  the  purpose  of  deceiving  the  enemy  all  names 
in  this  article  are  entirely  fictitious)  made  our  village. 
It  was  drizzling  at  the  time,  and  the  Field  Officer  in 
charge  was  getting  most  of  it  in  the  neck.  He  howled 
for  his  batman,  and  told  the  varlet  that  if  there  wasn't 
a  drizzle-proof  bivouac  ready  to  enfold  him  by  the  time 
he  had  put  the  ponies  to  bye-byes,  there  would  be  no 
leave  for  ten  years.  The  batman  scratched  his  head, 
then  slid  softly  away  into  the  night.  By  the  time  the 
ponies  were  tilting  the  last  drops  out  of  their  nosebags 
the  faithful  servant  had  scratched  together  a  few  sheets 
of  corrugated,  and  piled  them  into  a  rough  shelter. 
The  Major  wriggled  beneath  it  and  was  presently  put- 
ting up  a  barrage  of  snores  terrible  to  hear.  At  mid- 
night a  battalion  of  the  Loamshire  Light  Infantry 
trudged  into  the  village.  It  was  raining  in  solid  chunks, 
and  the  Colonel  Commanding  looked  like  Victoria  Falls 
and  felt  like  a  submarine.  He  gave  expression  to  his 
sentiments  in  a  series  of  spluttering  bellows.  His  bat- 
man trembled  and  faded  into  the  darkness  a  pas  de  loup. 
By  the  time  the  old  gentleman  had  halted  his  command 


"  Convey,"  the  Wise  It  Call  65 

and  cursed  them  "  good  night "  his  resourceful  retainer 
had  found  a  sheet  or  two  of  corrugated  iron  somewhere 
and  assembled  them  into  some  sort  of  bivouac  for  the 
reception  of  his  lord.  His  lord  fell  inside,  kicked  off 
his  boots  and  slept  instantly,  slept  like  a  wintering  bear. 

At  2  a.m.  three  Canadian  privates  blundered  against 
our  village  and  tripped  over  it.  They  had  lost  their 
way,  were  mud  from  hoofs  to  horns,  dead  beat,  soaked 
to  the  skin,  chilled  to  the  bone,  fed  up  to  the  back  teeth. 
They  were  not  going  any  further,  neither  were  they 
going  to  be  deluged  to  death  if  there  was  any  cover  to 
be  had  anywhere.  They  nosed  about,  and  soon  dis- 
covered a  few  sheets  of  corrugated  iron,  bore  them 
privily  hence  and  weathered  the  night  out  under  some 
logs  further  down  the  valley.  My  batman  trod  me 
underfoot  at  seven  next  morning.  "  Goin'  to  be  blinkin' 
murder  done  in  this  camp  presently,  Sir,"  he  announced 
cheerfully.  "  Three  oflScers  went  to  sleep  in  bivvies 
larst  night,  but  somebody's  souvenired  'em  since,  an' 
they're  all  lyin'  hout  in  the  hopen  now.  Sir.  Their 
blokes  daresent  wake  'em  an'  break  the  noos.  All  very 
'asty-tempered  gents,  so  I'm  told.  The  Colonel  is 
pertickler  mustard.  There'll  be  some  fresh  faces  on 
the  Roll  of  Honour  when  'e  comes  to." 

I  turned  out  and  took  a  look  at  the  scene  of  im- 
pending tragedy.  The  three  unconscious  officers  on 
three  camp  beds  were  lying  out  in  the  middle  of  a  sea 
of  mud  like  three  lone  islets.  Their  shuddering  sub- 
ordinates were  taking  cover  at  long  range,  whispering 
among  themselves  and  crouching  in  attitudes  of  dread- 


66  The  Mud  Larks 

ful  expectancy  like  men  awaiting  the  explosion  of  a 
mine  or  the  cracking  of  Doom.  As  explosions  of  those 
dimensions  are  liable  to  be  impartial  in  their  attentions 
I  took  horse  and  rode  afield.  But  according  to  my  bat- 
man, who  braved  it  out,  the  Lieutenant  woke  up  first, 
exploded  noisily  and  detonated  the  Field  Officer  who  in 
turn  detonated  the  Colonel.  In  the  words  of  my  bat- 
man— "  They  went  orf  one,  two,  three.  Sir,  for  orl  the 
world  like  a  machine-gun,  an  eighteen-pounder  and  an 
How-pop-pop!  Whizz-bang!  Boom! — ^very  'eavy  cas- 
u-alities,  Sir." 


Our  Mess  President  67 

XI 

OUR  MESS  PRESIDENT 

NOBODY  out  here  seems  exactly  infatuated  with  the 
politicians  nowadays.  The  Front  Trenches  have 
about  as  much  use  for  the  Front  Benches  as  a  big-game 
hunter  for  mosquitoes.  The  bayonet  professor  indicates 
his  row  of  dummies  and  says  to  his  lads,  "  Just  imagine 
they  are  Cabinet  Ministers — go !  "  and  in  a  clock-tick 
the  heavens  are  raining  shreds  of  sacking  and  particles 
of  straw.  The  demon  bomber  fancies  some  prominent 
Parliamentarian  is  lurking  in  the  opposite  sap,  grits  his 
teeth,  and  gets  an  extra  five  yards  into  his  bowling. 

But  I  am  not  entirely  of  the  vulgar  opinion.  The 
finished  politician  may  not  be  a  subject  for  odes,  but  a 
political  education  is  a  great  asset  to  any  man.  Our 
Mess  President,  "William,  once  assisted  a  friend  to  lose  a 
parliamentary  election,  and  his  experience  has  been  in- 
valuable to  us.  The  moment  we  are  tired  of  fighting 
and  want  billets,  the  Squadron  sits  down  where  it  is  and 
the  Skipper  passes  the  word  along  for  William.  Will- 
iam dusts  his  boots,  adjusts  his  tie  and  heads  for  tlie 
most  prepossessing  farm  in  sight.  Arrived  there,  he 
takes  off  his  hat  to  the  dog,  pats  the  pig,  asks  the  cow 
after  the  calf,  salutes  the  farmer,  curtsies  to  the  farmer- 
ess, then  turning  to  the  inevitable  baby,  exclaims  in  the 
language  of  the  country,  "  Mong  Jew,  kell  jolly  ong- 


68  The  Mud  Larks 

fong"  (Gosh,  what  a  topping  kid!),  and  bending  tend- 
erly over  it  imprints  a  lingering  kiss  upon  its  india- 
rubber  features  and  wins  the  freedom  of  the  farm. 
The  Mess  may  make  use  of  the  kitchen ;  the  spare  bed  is 
at  the  Skipper's  disposal;  the  cow  will  move  up  and 
make  room  for  the  First  Mate;  the  pig  will  be  only 
too  happy  to  welcome  the  Subalterns  to  its  modest 
abode. 

Ordinary  billeting  officers  stand  no  chance  against 
our  William  and  his  political  education.  "  That  fel- 
low," I  heard  one  disgruntled  competitor  remark  to  him, 
"  would  hug  the  devil  for  a  knob  of  coke."  Once 
only  did  he  meet  his  match,  and  a  battle  of  Titans 
resulted. 

In  pursuit  of  his  business  he  entered  a  certain  farm- 
house, to  find  the  baby  already  in  possession  of  another 
officer,  a  heavy  red  creature  with  a  monocle,  who  was 
rocking  the  infant's  cradle  seventy-five  revolutions  per 
minute  and  making  dulcet  noises  on  a  moustache  comb. 

William's  heart  fell  to  his  field  boots;  he  recognised 
the  red  creature's  markings  immediately.  This  was 
another  politician;  no  bloodless  victory  would  be  his; 
fur  would  fly  first,  powder  burn — Wow ! 

The  red  person  must  have  tumbled  to  William  as 
well,  for  he  increased  the  revolutions  to  one  hundred 
and  forty  per  minute  and  broke  into  a  shrill  lullaby  of 
his  own  impromptu  composition: 

"Go  to  sleep,  Mummy's  liddle  Did-iuns; 
Go  to  sleep,  Daddy's  liddle  Thing-me-jig." 


Our  Mess  President  69 

Nevertheless  this  did  not  baffle  our  William.  He 
approached  from  a  flank,  deftly  fwitched  the  infant  out 
of  its  cradle  by  the  scruff  of  its  neck,  and  commenced 
to  plaster  it  with  tender  kisses.  However  the  red  man 
tailed  it  as  it  went  past  and  hung  on,  kissing  any  bits  he 
could  reach.  "When  the  mother  reappeared  they  were 
worrying  the  baby  between  them  as  a  couple  of  hound 
puppies  worry  the  hind  leg  of  a  cub.  She  beat  them 
faithfully  with  a  broom  and  hove  both  of  them  out 
into  the  wide  wet  world,  and  we  all  slept  in  a  bog  that 
night,  and  William  was  much  abused  and  loathed.  But 
that  was  his  only  failure. 

If  getting  billets  is  William's  job,  getting  rid  of  them 
is  the  Babe's  affair.  William,  like  myself,  has  far  too 
great  a  mastery  of  the  patois  to  handle  delicate  situa- 
tions with  success.  For  instance,  when  the  farmer  ap- 
proaches me  with  tidings  that  my  troopers  have  burnt 
two  ploughshares  and  a  crowbar,  and  my  troop-horses 
have  masticated  a  brick  wall,  I  engage  him  in  palaver, 
with  the  result  that  we  eventually  part,  I  under  the  im- 
pression that  the  incident  is  closed,  and  he  under  the  im- 
pression that  I  have  promised  to  buy  him  a  new  farm. 
This  leads  to  all  sorts  of  international  complications. 

The  Babe,  on  the  other  hand,  regards  a  knowledge  of 
French  as  immoral  and  only  knows  enough  of  it  to  order 
himself  a  drink.  He  is  also  gifted  with  a  slight  stutter, 
which  under  the  stress  of  a  foreign  language  becomes 
chronic.  So  when  we  evacuate  a  billet  William  fur- 
nishes the  Babe  with  enough  money  to  compensate  the 
farmer  for  all  damages  we  have  not  committed,  and  then 


70  The  Mud  Larks 

effaces  himself.  Donning  a  bright  smile  the  Babe  ap- 
proaches the  farmer  and  presses  the  lucre  into  his  honest 
palm. 

"Hi,"  says  the  worthy  fellow,  "what  is  this,  then? 
One  hundred  francs !  ^Yhere  is  the  seventy-four  francs, 
six  centimes  for  the  fleas  your  dog  stole  ?  The  two  hun- 
dred francs,  three  centimes  for  the  indigestion  your 
rations  gave  my  pig?  The  eight  thousand  and  ninety- 
nine  francs,  five  centimes  insurance  money  I  should 
have  collected  if  your  brigands  had  not  stopped  my 
barn  from  burning? — and  all  the  other  little  damages, 
three  million,  eight  hundred  thousand  and  forty-four 
francs,  one  centime  in  all — where  is  it,  hein  ? "" 

"  Ec-c-coutez  une  moment,"  the  Babe  begins. 
"  Jer  p-p-poovay  expliquay  tut — tut — tut — tut — sh-sh- 

shiss "  says  he,  loosening  his  stammer  at  rapid  fire, 

popping  and  hissing,  rushing  and  hitching  like  a  red- 
hot  machine-gun  with  a  siphon  attachment.  In  five 
minutes  the  farmer  is  white  in  the  face  and  imploring 
the  Babe  to  let  bygones  be  bygones.  "  N-n-not  a  b-bit  of 
it,  old  t-top,"  says  the  Babe.     "  Jer  p-p-poovay  exp-p- 

pliquay  b-b-bub-bub-bub "  and  away  it  goes  again 

like  a  combined  steam  riveter  and  shower  bath,  like  the 
water  coming  down  at  Lodore.  No  farmer  however 
hardy  has  been  known  to  stand  more  than  twenty  min- 
utes of  this.  A  quarter  of  an  hour  usually  sees  him  bolt- 
ing and  barring  himself  into  the  cellar,  with  the  Babe 
blowing  him  kisses  of  fond  farewell  through  the  key- 
hole. 

We  are  billeted  on  a  farm  at  the  present  moment. 


Our  Mess  President  71 

The  Skipper  occupies  the  best  bed;  the  rest  of  us  are 
doing  the  al  fresco  touch  in  tents  and  bivouacs  scattered 
about  the  surrounding  landscape.  We  are  on  very  inti- 
mate terms  with  the  genial  farmyard  folk.  Every  morn- 
ing I  awake  to  find  half  a  dozen  hens  and  their  gentle- 
man friend  roosting  along  my  anatomy.  One  of  the  hens 
laid  an  egg  in  my  ear  this  morning.  William  says  she 
mistook  it  for  her  nest,  but  I  take  it  the  hen,  as  an 
honest  bird,  was  merely  paying  rent  for  the  roost. 

The  Babe  turned  up  at  breakfast  this  morning  wear- 
ing only  half  a  moustache.  He  said  a  goat  had  browsed 
off  the  other  half  while  he  slept.  The  poor  beast  has 
been  having  fits  of  giggles  ever  since — a  moustache 
must  be  very  ticklish  to  digest. 

Yesterday  MacTavish,  while  engaged  in  taking  his 
tub  in  the  open,  noticed  that  his  bath-water  was  mys- 
teriously sinking  lower  and  lower.  Turning  round  to 
investigate  the  cause  of  the  phenomenon  he  beheld  a 
gentle  milch  privily  sucking  it  up  behind  his  back. 
There  was  a  strong  flavour  of  Coal  Tar  soap  in  the 
cafe  au  hit  to-day. 

This  morning  at  dawn  I  was  aroused  by  a  cold  foot 
pawing  at  my  face.  Blinking  awake,  I  observed  Albert 
Edward  in  rosy  pyjamas  capering  beside  my  bed. 
"  Show  a  leg,  quick,"  he  whispered.  "  Kouse  out,  and 
Uncle  will  show  boysey  pretty  picture." 

Brushing  aside  the  coverlet  of  fowl,  I  followed  him 
tiptoe  across  the  dewy  mead  to  the  tarpaulin  which  he 
and  MacTavish  call  "  home." 

Albert  Edward  lifted  a  flap  and  signed  me  to  peep 


72  The  Mud  Larks 

witliin.     It  was,  as  he  had  promised,  a  pretty  picture. 

At  the  foot  of  our  MacTavish's  mattress,  under  a 
spare  blanket  lifted  from  that  warrior  in  his  sleep,  lay 
a  large  pink  pig.  Both  were  occupied  in  peaceful  and 
stertorous  repose. 

"  Heads  of  Angels,  by  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds," 
breathed  Albert  Edward  in  my  ear. 


Funny  Cuts  73 

XII 

FUNNY  CUTS 

ALL  the  world  has  marvelled  at  "  the  irrepressible 
-^~*-  good  humour  "  of  old  Atkins.  Every  distinguished 
tripper  who  comes  Cook's  touring  to  the  Front  for  a 
couple  of  days  devotes  at  least  a  chapter  of  his  resultant 
book  to  it.  "  How  in  thunder  does  Thomas  do  it  ?  " 
they  ask.  "  What  the  mischief  does  he  find  to  laugh 
at  ? "    Listen. 

Years  ago,  when  the  well-known  War  was  young, 
a  great  man  sat  in  his  sanctum  exercising  his  grey 
matter.  He  said  to  himself,  "  There  is  a  war  on.  Men, 
amounting  to  several,  will  be  prised  loose  from  comfort- 
able surroundings  and  condemned  to  get  on  with  it  for 
the  term  of  their  unnatural  lives.  They  will  be  shelled, 
gassed,  mined  and  bombed,  smothered  in  mud,  worked 
to  the  bone,  bored  stiff  and  scared  silly.  Fatigues  will 
be  unending,  rations  short,  rum  diluted,  reliefs  late  and 
leave  nil.  Their  girls  will  forsake  them  for  diamond- 
studded  munitioneers.  Their  wives  will  write  saying, 
'  Little  Jimmie  has  the  mumps ;  and  what  about  the 
rent?  You  aren't  spending  all  of  five  bob  a  week  on 
yourself,  are  you  ? '  This  is  but  a  tithe  (or  else  a 
tittle)  of  the  things  that  will  occur  to  them,  and  their 
sunny  natures  will  sour  and  sicken  if  something  isn't 
done  about  it." 


74  The  Mud  Larks 

The  great  mau  sat  up  all  night  chewing  penholders 
and  pondering  on  the  problem.  The  Big  Idea  came 
with  the  end  of  the  eighth  penholder. 

He  sprang  to  his  feet,  fires  of  inspiration  flashing 
from  his  eyes,  and  boomed,  "  Let  there  be  Funny 
Cuts!" — then  went  to  bed.  Next  morning  he  created 
"  1.'*  (which  stands  for  Intelligence),  carefully  selected 
his  Staff,  arrayed  them  in  tabs  of  appropriate  hue,  and 
told  them  to  go  the  limit.  And  they  have  been  going  it 
faithfully  ever  since.  "What  the  Marines  are  to  the 
Senior  Service,  "  I."  is  to  us.  Should  a  Subaltern  come 
in  with  the  yarn  that  the  spook  of  Hindenburg  accosted 
him  at  Bloody  Corner  and  offered  him  a  cigar,  or  a 
balloon  cherub  buttonhole  you  with  the  story  of  a  Boche 
tank  fitted  with  rubber  tyres,  C-springs  and  hot  and 
cold  water,  that  he  has  seen  climbing  trees  behind  St. 
Quentin,  we  retort,  "  Oh,  go  and  tell  it  to  '  I.'  "  and  then 
sit  back  and  see  what  the  inspired  official  organ  of  the 
green  tabs  will  make  of  it.  A  hint  is  as  good  as  a  wink 
to  them,  a  nudge  ample.  Under  the  genius  of  these 
imaginative  artists  the  most  trivial  incident  bourgeons 
forth  into  a  Le  Queux  spell-binder,  and  the  whole  Brit- 
ish Army,  mustering  about  its  Sergeant-Majors,  gets 
selected  cameos  read  to  it  every  morning  at  roll-call, 
laughs  brokenly  into  the  jaws  of  dawn  and  continues 
chuckling  to  itself  all  day.     Now  you  know. 

Our  Adjutant  had  a  telephone  call  not  long  ago. 
"  Army  speaking,"  said  a  voice.  "  Will  you  send  some- 
body over  to  Courcelles  and  see  if  there  is  a  Town  Major 
there  ? " 


Funny  Cuts  75 

The  Adjutant  said  he  would,  and  a  N.C.O.  was  des- 
patched forthwith.  He  returned  later,  reporting  no 
symptoms  of  one,  so  the  Adjutant  rang  up  Exchange  and 
asked  to  be  hooked  on  to  Army  Headquarters.  "  Which 
branch  ?  "  Exchange  inquired.  "  Why,  really  I  don't 
know — forgot  to  ask,"  the  Adjutant  confessed.  "  I'll 
have  a  try  at  '  A.'  " 

"  Hello,"  said  "  A."  "  There  is  no  Town  Major  at 
Courcelles,"  said  the  Adjutant.  "  You  astound  me, 
Fair  Unkno^vn,"  said  "  A." ;  "  but  what  about  it,  any- 
way ? "  The  Adjutant  apologised  and  asked  Exchange 
for  "  Q."  department.  "  Hello,"  said  "  Q."  "  There 
is  no  Town  Major  at  Courcelles,"  said  the  Adjutant. 
"  Sorry,  old  thing,  whoever  you  are,"  said  "  Q.,"  "  but 
we  don't  stock  'era.  Eations,  iron;  perspirators,  box; 
oil,  whale,  delivered  with  promptitude  and  civility,  but 
not  Town  Majors — sorry."  The  Adjutant  sighed  and 
consulted  with  Exchange  as  to  who  possibly  could  have 
rung  him  up. 

Exchange  couldn't  guess  unless  it  was  "  I." — no  harm 
in  trying,  anyhow. 

"  Hello !  "  said  "  I."  "  There  is  no  Town  Major  at 
Courcelles,"  the  Adjutant  droned  somewhat  wearily. 
"  Wha-t !  "  "  I."  exclaimed,  suddenly  interested.  "  Say 
it  again,  clearer."  "  Cour-celles — No — Town — Major," 
the  Adjutant  repeated.  There  was  a  pause;  then  he 
heard  the  somebody  give  off  an  awed  "  Good  Lord !  '* 
and  drop  the  receiver.  Next  morning  in  Funny  Cuts 
(the  organ  of  Intelligence)  we  learned  that  "  Corps 
Headquarters  was   heavily  Shelled  last   night.     The 


76  The  Mud  Larks 

Town  Major  is  missing.  This  is  evidence  that  the 
enemy  has  brought  long-range  gims  into  the  opposite 
sector."  Followed  masses  of  information  as  to  the  prob- 
able make  of  the  guns,  the  size  of  shell  they  preferred, 
the  life-story  of  the  Battery  Commander,  his  favourite 
flower  and  author. 

The  Boche,  always  on  the  alert  to  snaffle  the  paying 
devices  of  an  opposition  firm,  now  has  his  "  I."  staff 
and  Funny  Cuts  as  well.  From  time  to  time  we  cap- 
ture a  copy  and  read  this  sort  of  thing: 

"  From  agonised  screeches  heard  by  one  of  our  in- 
trepid airmen  while  patrolling  over  the  enemy's  lines 
yesterday,  it  is  evident  that  the  brutal  and  relentless 
British  are  bayoneting  their  prisoners." 

A  Highland  Division,  whose  star  pipers  were  hold- 
ing a  dirge  and  lament  contest  on  that  date,  are  now 
ticking  off  the  hours  to  the  next  offensive. 

The  Antrims  had  a  cordon  hleu  by  the  name  of 
Michael  O'Callagan.  He  was  a  sturdy  rogue,  having 
retreated  all  the  way  from  Mons,  and  subsequently  ad- 
vanced all  the  way  back  to  the  Yser  with  a  huge  stock- 
pot  on  his  back,  from  which  he  had  furnished  mysterious 
stews  to  all  comers,  at  all  hours,  under  any  conditions. 
For  this,  and  for  the  fact  that  he  could  cook  under 
water,  and  would  turn  out  hot  meals  when  other  chefs 
were  committing  suicide,  much  was  forgiven  him,  but 
he  was  prone  to  look  upon  the  vin  when  it  was  rouge 
and  was  habitually  coated  an  inch  thick  with  a  varnish 
of  soot  and  pot-black.  One  morning  he  calmly  hove 
himself  over  the  parapet  and,  in  spite  of  the  earnest  at- 


Funny  Cuts  "j^ 

tentions  of  Hun  snipers,  remained  there  long  enough  to 
collect  sufficient  debris  to  boil  his  dixies.  !Next  day  the 
Boche  Funny  Cuts  flared  forth  scareheads : 

"  Savages  on  the  Somme. 

"  The  desperate  and  unprincipled  British  are  em- 
ploying black  cannibal  Zulus  in  the  defence  of  their 
system.  Yesterday  one  of  them,  a  chief  of  incredibly 
depraved  appearance,  "was  observed  scouting  in  the 
open." 

The  communique  ended  ^\\h.  a  treatise  on  the  Zulu, 
its  black  man-eating  habits,  and  an  exhortation  to  "  our 
old  Brandenburgers  "  not  to  be  dismayed. 


78  The  Mud  Larks 

XIII 
LEAVE 

THE  Babe  went  to  England  on  leave.  I^ot  that  this 
was  any  new  experience  for  him ;  he  usually  pulled 
it  off  every  twelve  months — influence,  and  that  sort  of 
thing,  you  know.  He  went  down  to  the  coast  in  a  car- 
riage containing  seventeen  other  men,  but  he  got  a  fat 
sleepy  youth  to  sit  on,  and  was  passably  comfortable. 
He  crossed  over  in  a  wobbly  boat  packed  from  cellar  to 
attic  with  Eed  Tabs  invalided  with  shell  shock,  Blue 
Tabs  with  trench  fever,  and  Green  Tabs  with  brain-fag ; 
Mechanical  Transporters  in  spurs  and  stocks,  jam  mer- 
chants in  revolvers  and  bowie-knives,  Military  Police 
festooned  with  pickelhaubes,  and  here  and  there  a  fur- 
tive fighting  man  who  had  got  away  by  mistake,  and 
would  be  recalled  as  soon  as  he  landed. 

The  leave  train  rolled  into  Victoria  late  in  the  after- 
noon. Cab  touts  buzzed  about  the  Babe,  but  he  would 
have  none  of  them ;  he  would  go  afoot  the  better  to  see 
the  sights  of  the  village — a  leisurely  sentimental  pilgrim- 
age. He  had  not  covered  one  hundred  yards  when  a 
ducky  little  thing  pranced  up  to  him,  squeaking,  "  "Where 
are  your  gloves,  Sir ? "  "I  always  put  'em  in  cold 
storage  during  summer  along  with  my  muff  and  boa, 
dear,"  the  Babe  replied  pleasantly.  "  Moreover,  my 
mother  doesn't  like  me  to  talk  to  strangers  in  the  streets, 


Leave  79 

so  ta-ta."  The  little  creature  blushed  like  a  tea-rose  and 
stamped  its  little  hoof.  "  Insolence !  "  it  squeaked. 
"  You — you  go  back  to  France  by  the  next  boat !  "  and 
the  Babe  perceived  to  his  horror  that  he  had  been  witty 
to  an  Assistant  Provost-Marshal !  He  flung  himself 
down  on  his  knees,  licking  the  A.P.M.'s  boots  and  cry- 
ing in  a  loud  voice  that  he  would  be  good  and  never  do  it 
again. 

The  A.P.M.  pardoned  the  Babe  (he  wanted  to  save 
the  polish  on  his  boots)  on  condition  that  he  immediately 
purchased  a  pair  of  gloves  of  the  official  cut  and  hue. 
The  Babe  did  so  forthwith  and  continued  on  his  way. 
He  had  not  continued  ten  yards  when  another  A.P.M. 
tripped  him  up.  "  That  cap  is  a  disgrace,  Sir !  "  he 
barked.  "  I  know  it,  Sir,"  the  Babe  admitted,  "  and 
I'm  awfully  sorry  about  it;  but  that  hole  in  it  only 
arrived  last  night — shrapnel,  you  know — and  I  haven't 
had  time  to  buy  another  yet.  I  don't  care  for  the  style 
they  sell  in  those  little  French  shops — do  you  ?  " 

The  A.P.M.  didn't  know  anything  about  France  or 
its  little  shops,  and  didn't  intend  to  investigate ;  at  any 
rate  not  while  there  was  a  war  on  there.  "  You  will 
return  to  the  Front  to-morrow,"  said  he.  The  Babe 
grasped  his  hand  from  him  and  shook  it  warmly. 
"  Thank  you — thank  you,  Sir,"  he  gushed ;  "  I  didn't 
want  to  come,  but  they  made  me.  I'm  from  Fiji;  have 
no  friends  here,  and  London  is  somehow  so  different 
from  Suva  it  makes  my  head  ache.  I  am  broke  and 
couldn't  afford  leave,  anyway.  Thank  you.  Sir — thank 
you." 


8o  The  Mud  Larks 

"  Ahem — in  that  case  I  will  revoke  my  decision/' 
said  the  A.P.M.  "  Buy  yourself  an  officially-sanctioned 
cap  and  carry  on." 

The  Babe  bought  one  with  alacrity;  then,  having 
tasted  enough  of  the  dangers  of  the  streets  for  one  after- 
noon, took  a  taxi,  and,  lying  in  the  bottom,  well  out  of 
sight,  sped  to  his  old  hotel.  When  he  reached  his  old 
hotel  he  found  it  had  changed  during  his  absence,  and 
was  now  headquarters  of  the  Director  of  Bones  and 
Dripping.  He  abused  the  taxi-driver,  who  said  he  was 
sorry,  but  there  was  no  telling  these  days ;  a  hotel  was  a 
hotel  one  moment,  and  the  next  it  was  something  entirely 
different.    Motion  pictures  weren't  in  it,  he  said. 

Finally  they  discovered  a  hotel  which  was  still  be- 
having as  such,  and  the  Babe  got  a  room.  He  remained 
in  that  room  all  the  evening,  beneath  the  bed,  having 
his  meals  pushed  in  to  him  under  the  door.  A  prowling 
A.P.M.  sniffed  at  the  keyhole,  but  did  not  investigate 
further,  which  was  fortunate  for  the  Babe,  who  had  no 
regulation  pyjamas. 

'Next  morning,  crouched  on  the  bottom  boards  of 
another  taxi,  he  was  taken  to  his  tailor,  poured  himself 
into  the  faithful  fellow's  hands,  and  only  departed  when 
guaranteed  to  be  absolutely  A.P.M. -proof.  He  went  to 
the  "  Bolero  "  for  lunch,  ordered  some  oysters  for  a 
start,  polished  them  off  and  bade  the  waiter  trot  up  the 
consomme.  The  waiter  shook  his  head.  "  Can't  be 
done,  Sir.  Subaltern  gents  are  only  allowed  three  and 
six-pence  worth  of  food  and  you've  already  had  that,  Sir. 
If  we  was  to  serve  you  with  a  crumb  more,  we'd  be 


Leave  8i 

persecuted  under  the  Trading  with  the  Enemy  Act,  Sir. 
There's  an  A.P.M.  sitting  in  the  corner  this  very 
moment,  Sir,  his  eyeglass  fixed  on  your  every  mouth- 
ful, very  suspicious-like " 

''  Good  Lord!  "  said  the  Babe,  and  bolted.  He  bolted 
as  far  as  the  next  restaurant,  had  a  three-and-sixpenny 
entree  there,  went  on  to  another  for  sweets,  and  yet 
another  for  coffee  and  trimmings.  These  short  bursts 
between  courses  kept  his  appetite  wonderfully  alive. 

That  afternoon  he  ran  across  a  lady  friend  in  Bond 
Street,  "  a  War  Toiler  enormously  interested  in  the 
War"  (see  the  current  number  of  Social  Snaps).  She 
had  been  at  Yvonne's  trying  on  her  gauze  for  the  Boc- 
caccio Tableaux  in  aid  of  the  Armenians  and  needed 
some  relaxation.  So  she  engaged  the  Babe  for  the  play, 
to  be  followed  by  supper  with  herself  and  her  civilian 
husband.  The  play  (a  War  drama)  gave  the  Babe  a 
fine  hunger,  but  the  Commissionaire  (apparently  a 
Major-General)  who  does  odd  jobs  outside  the  Blitz 
took  exception  to  him.  "  Can't  go  in.  Sir."  "  Why 
not  ?  "  the  Babe  inquired ;  "  my  friends  have  gone  in." 
"  Yessir,  but  no  hofficers  are  allowed  to  obtain  nourish- 
ment after  10  p.m.  under  Defence  of  the  Realm  Act, 
footnote  (a)  to  para.  14004."  He  leaned  forward  and 
whispered  behind  his  glove,  "  There's  a  Hay  Pee  Hem 
under  the  portico  watching  your  movements.  Sir."  The 
Babe  needed  no  further  warning;  he  dived  into  his 
friend's  Limousine  and  burrowed  under  the  rug. 

Some  time  later  the  door  of  the  car  was  opened 
cautiously  and  the  moon-face  of  the  Major-General  in- 


82  The  Mud  Larks 

sorted  itself  through  the  crack.  "  Hall  clear  for  the 
moment,  Sir;  the  Hay  Pee  Hem  'as  gorn  orf  dahn  the 
street,  chasin'  a  young  hofficer  in  low  shoes.  'Ere,  tyke 
this;  I'm  a  hold  soldier  meself."  He  thrust  a 
damp  banana  in  the  Babe's  hand  and  closed  the  door 
softly. 

^ext  morning  the  Babe  dug  up  an  old  suit  of  1914 
"  civies  "  and  put  them  on.  A  woman  in  the  Tube 
called  him  "  Cuthbert "  and  informed  him  gratuitously 
that  her  husband,  twice  the  Babe's  age,  had  volunteered 
the  moment  Conscription  was  declared  and  had  been 
fighting  bravely  in  the  Army  Clothing  Department  ever 
since.  Further  she  supposed  the  Babe's  father  was  in 
Parliament  and  that  he  was  a  Conscientious  Objector. 
In  Hyde  Park  one  urchin  addressed  him  as  "  Daddy  " 
and  asked  him  what  he  was  doing  in  the  Great  War; 
another  gambolled  round  and  round  him  making  noises 
like  a  rabbit.  In  Knightsbridge  a  Military  Policeman 
wanted  to  arrest  him  as  a  deserter.  The  Babe  hailed  a 
taxi  and,  cowering  on  the  floor,  fled  back  to  his  hotel  and 
changed  into  uniform  again. 

That  night,  strolling  homewards  in  the  dark,  im- 
mersed in  thought,  he  inadvertently  took  a  pipe  out  of 
his  pocket  and  lit  it.  An  A.P.M.  who  had  been  sleuth- 
ing him  for  half  a  mile  leapt  upon  him,  snatched  the 
pipe  and  two  or  three  teeth  out  of  his  mouth  and  re- 
turned him  to  France  by  the  next  boat. 

His  groom,  beaming  welcome,  met  him  at  the  rail- 
head with  the  horses. 


Leave  83 

"  Hello,  old  thing,  cheerio  and  all  the  rest  of  it," 
Huntsman  whinnied  lovingly. 

Miss  Muffet  rubbed  her  velvet  muzzle  against  his 
pocket.  "  Brought  a  lump  of  sugar  for  a  little  girl  ?  " 
she  rumbled. 

He  mounted  her  and  headed  across  country,  Miss 
Muffet  pig-jumping  and  capering  to  show  what  excellent 
spirits  she  enjoyed. 

Two  brigades  of  infantry  were  under  canvas  in  Mud 
Gully,  their  cook  fires  winking  like  red  eyes.  The 
guards  clicked  to  attention  and  slapped  their  butts  as 
the  Babe  went  by.  A  subaltern,  bobbed  out  of  a  tent  and 
shouted  to  him  to  stop  to  tea.  "  We've  got  cake,"  he 
lured,  but  the  Babe  went  on. 

A  red-hat  cantered  across  the  stubble  before  him 
waving  a  friendly  crop,  "  Pip "  Vibart  the  A.P.M. 
homing  to  H.Q.  "  Evening,  boy !  "  he  holloaed ;  "  come 
up  and  Bridge  to-morrow  night,"  and  swept  on  over  the 
hillside.  A  flight  of  aeroplanes,  like  flies  in  the  amber 
of  sunset,  droned  overhead  en  route  for  Hunland.  The 
Babe  waved  his  official  cap  at  them :  "  Good  hunting,  old 
dears." 

They  had  just  started  feeding  up  in  the  regimental 
lines  when  he  arrived ;  the  excited  neighing  of  five  hun- 
dred horses  was  music  to  his  ears.  His  brother  subal- 
terns hailed  his  return  with  loud  and  exuberant  noises, 
made  disparaging  remarks  about  the  smartness  of  his 
clothes,  sat  on  him  all  over  the  floor  and  rumpled  him. 
On  sighting  the  Babe,  The  O'Murphy  went  mad  and 
careered  round  the  table  wriggling  like  an  Oriental 


84  The  Mud  Larks 

dancer,  uttering  shrill  yelps  of  delight;  presently  he 
bounced  out  of  the  window,  to  enter  some  minutes  later 
by  the  same  route,  and  lay  the  offering  of  a  freshly  slain 
rat  at  his  best  beloved's  feet 

At  this  moment  the  skipper  came  in  plastered  thick 
with  the  mud  of  the  line,  nodded  cheerfully  to  his  junior 
sub  and  instantaneously  fell  upon  the  buttered  toast. 

"  Have  a  good  time,  Son  ?  "  he  mumbled.  "  How's 
merrie  England  ?  " 

"  Oh,  England's  all  right,  Sir,"  said  the  Babe,  tick- 
ling The  O'Murphy's  upturned  tummy — "  quite  all 
right ;  but  it's  jolly  to  be  home  again  among  one's  ain 
folk.'' 


"  Harmony,  Gents!"  85 

XIV 
"  HARMOIS^Y,  GENTS !  " 

NO  one,  with  the  exception  of  the  Boche,  has  a  higher 
admiration  for  the  scrapping  abilities  of  the  Scot 
than  I  have,  but  in  matters  musical  we  do  not  hear  ear 
to  ear.  It  is  not  that  I  have  no  soul ;  I  have.  I  fairly 
throb  with  it  I  rise  in  the  mornings  trilling  trifles  of 
Monckton  and  croon  myself  to  sleep  0'  nights  with 
snatches  of  Novello. 

I  do  not  wish  to  boast,  but  to  hear  me  pick  the  "  Moon- 
light Sonata  "  out  of  a  piano  with  one  hand  (the  other 
strapped  behind  my  back)  is  an  unforgettable  experi- 
ence. 

I  would  not  yield  to  Paderewski  himself  on  the  comb, 
bones  or  Jew's  harp,  and  I  could  give  A.  Gabriel  a  run 
for  his  money  on  the  coachhorn.    But  these  bagpipes ! 

It  is  not  so  much  the  execution  of  the  bagpiper  that 
I  object  to  as  his  restricted  repertoire.  He  can  only  play 
one  noise.  It  is  quite  useless  a  Scot  explaining  to  me 
that  this  is  the  ''  Lament  of  Sandy  Macpherson  "  and 
that  the  "  Dirge  of  Hamish  MacNish  " ;  it  all  sounds 
the  same  to  me. 

The  brigade  of  infantry  that  is  camped  in  front  of 
my  dug-out  ("  Mon  Repos")  is  a  Scots  brigade.  Not 
temporary  Scots  from  the  Highlands  of  Commissioner 
Street,  Jo'burg,  and  Hastings  Street,  Vancouver  (about 


86  The  Mud  Larks 

whom  I  have  nothing  to  say) ,  but  real  puJcJca,  law-abid- 
ing, kirk-going,  God-fearing,  bayonet-pushing  Gaels, 
bred  among  the  crags  of  the  Grampians  and  reared  on 
thistles  and  illicit  whuskey.  And  every  second  man  in 
this  brigade  is  a  confirmed  bagpiper. 

They  have  massed  pipes  for  breakfast,  lunch,  tea  and 
dinner ;  pipes  solos  before,  during,  and  after  drinks.  If 
one  of  them  goes  across  the  road  to  borrow  a  box  of 
matches,  a  piper  goes  with  him  raising  Cain.  Their 
Officers'  Mess  is  situated  just  behind  "  Mon  Eepos,"  so 
we  live  in  the  orchestra  stalls,  so  to  speak,  and  hear  all 
there  is  to  be  heard. 

One  evening,  while  Sandy  Macpherson's  (or  Hamish 
MaclSTish's)  troubles  were  being  very  poignantly  aired 
next  door,  Albert  Edward  came  to  the  conclusion  that 
the  limit  had  been  reached.  "  They've  been  killing  the 
pig  steadily  for  ten  days  and  nights  now,"  said  he; 
"  something's  got  to  be  done  about  it." 

"  I'm  with  you,"  said  I ;  "  but  what  are  we  two 
against  a  whole  brigade?  If  they  were  to  catch  you 
pushing  an  impious  pin  into  one  of  their  sacred  joy- 
bags  there'd  be  another  Second  Lieutenant  missing." 

"  Desist  and  let  me  think,"  said  Albert  Edward,  and 
for  the  next  hour  he  lay  on  his  bed  rolling  and  groan- 
ing— the  usual  signs  that  his  so-called  brain  is  active. 

The  following  morning  he  rode  over  to  the  squadron, 
returning  later  with  the  Mess  gramophone  and  a  certain 
record.  There  are  records  and  records,  but  for  high 
velocity,  armour-piercing  and  range  this  one  bangs 
Eanagher.    It  is  a  gem  out  of  that  "  sparkling  galaxy 


'' Harmony,  Gents!  "  87 

of  melody,  mirth  and  talent"  (Press  Agent  speaking), 
"I  Don't  Think"  which  scintillates  nightly  at  the 
Frivolity  Theatre. 

"  When  the  Humming-birds  are  singing  "  is  the  title 
thereof,  and  Miss  Birdie  de  Maie  renders  it — renders  it 
as  she  alone  can,  in  a  voice  like  a  file  chafing  corrugated 
iron. 

We  started  the  birds  humming  at  4  p.m.,  and  let  it 
rip  steadily  until  11.15  p.m.,  only  stopping  to  change 
needles. 

Albert  Edward's  batman  unleashed  the  hub-bub  again 
at  six  next  morning;  my  batman  relieved  him  at  eight, 
and  so  on  throughout  the  day  in  two-hour  shifts.  At 
night  the  line  guards  carried  on.  The  following  morn- 
ing, as  our  batmen  threatened  to  report  sick,  we  crimed 
a  trooper  for  "  dumb  insolence  "  and  made  him  expiate 
his  sin  by  tending  the  gramophone.  O'Dwyer,  of  one 
of  the  neighbouring  ammunition  columns,  came  over  in 
the  afternoon  to  complain  that  his  mules  couldn't  get 
a  wink  of  sleep  and  were  muttering  among  themselves ; 
but  we  gave  him  a  bottle  of  whiskey  and  he  went  away 
quietly. 

Monk  of  the  other  column  called  an  hour  later  to 
ask  if  we  wanted  to  draw  shell-fire;  but  we  bought  him 
off  with  a  snaffle  bit  and  a  bottle  of  hair  lotion. 

The  whole  neighbourhood  grew  restive.  Somebody 
under  cover  of  the  dark  took  a  pot  at  the  gramophone 
with  a  revolver  and  winged  it  in  the  trumpet.  Even  the 
placid  observation  balloon  which  floats  above  our  camp 
grew  nasty  and  dropped  binoculars  and  sextants  on  us. 


88  The  Mud  Larks 

We  built  a  protective  breastwork  of  sandbags  about  it 
and  carried  on.  As  for  ourselves  we  didn't  mind  the 
racket  in  the  least,  having  taken  the  precaution  of  cork- 
ing our  ears  with  gunners'  wax. 

Then  one  evening  we  discovered  a  Highland  bomber 
worming  up  a  drain  on  his  stomach  towards  our  instru- 
ment. Cornered,  he  excused  himself  on  the  plea  that 
it  was  a  form  of  Swedish  exercise  he  always  took  at 
twilight  for  the  benefit  of  his  digestion.  An  ingenious 
explanation,  but  it  hardly  covered  the  live  Mills  bomb  he 
was  endeavouring  to  conceal  in  a  fold  of  his  kilt.  We 
drove  him  away  with  a  barrage  of  peg-mallets;  but 
secretly  we  were  very  elated,  for  it  was  clear  that  the 
strain  was  telling  on  the  hardy  Scot. 

As  a  precautionary  measure  we  now  surrounded  the 
gramophone  with  a  barbed-wire  entanglement,  and  so 
we  carried  on. 

Next  day  we  saw  a  score  of  kiltie  ofiicers  grouped  out- 
side their  Mess,  heads  together,  apparently  in  earnest- 
consultation.  Every  now  and  again  they  would  turn 
and  glare  darkly  in  our  direction. 

"  The  white  chiefs  hold  heap  big  palaver  over 
yonder,"  Albert  Edward  remarked.  "  They're  tossing 
up  now  to  decide  who  shall  come  over  and  beard  us. 
The  braw  bairn  with  the  astrakhan  knees  has  lost ;  he's 
cocking  his  bonnet  and  asking  his  pals  if  he's  got  his 
sporran  on  straight.  Behold  he  approacheth,  stepping 
delicately.    I  leave  it  to  you,  partner." 

I  lay  in  the  grass  and  waited  for  the  deputation.  The 
gramophone,  safe  behind  its  sandbags  and  wire,  was 


"Harmony,  Gents!"  89 

doing  busines  as  usual,  Miss  Birdie  yowling  away  like 
a  wild  cat  on  hot  cinders.  The  deputation  picked  his 
way  round  the  horse  lines,  nodded  to  me  and  sat  down 
on  the  oil-drum  we  keep  for  the  accommodation  of 
guests.  He  nervously  opened  the  ball  by  remarking 
that  the  weather  was  fine. 

I  did  not  agree  with  him,  but  refused  to  argue.  That 
baffled  him  for  some  seconds,  but  he  recovered  by  main- 
taining that  it  was  anyway  finer  than  it  had  been  in 
1915.  After  that  outburst  he  seemed  at  a  loss  for  a 
topic  of  conversation,  and  sat  scratching  his  ear  as  if 
he  expected  to  get  inspiration  out  of  it  as  a  conjurer  gets 
rabbits. 

"  Ye  seem  verra  pairtial  to  music  ? "  he  ventured 
presently. 

"  Passionately,"  said  I. 

"  Ah — hem !  Ye  seem  verra  pairtial  to  that  one 
selection,"  he  continued. 

"  Passionately  devoted  to  it,"  said  I.  "  Lovely  little 
thing ;  I  adore  its  sentiment,  tempo,  tremolo  and  timbre, 
its  fortissimo  and  allegro.  Just  listen  to  the  part  that's 
coming  now — 

'  When  the  humming  birds  are  singing 
And  the  old  church  bells  are  ringing 
We'll  canoodle,  we'll  canoodle  'neath  the  moon. 
Down  in  Alabama 
You'll  be  my  starry-eyed  charmer; 
On  my  white-haired  kitten's  grave  we'll  sit  and  spoon,  spoon, 
spoo-00-oon.' 

!N'ifty  bit  of  allegro  work  that — eh,  what  ?  " 

He  nodded  politely.     "Ay — of  course,   sairtainly; 


90  The  Mud  Larks 

but — er — er — don't  ye  find  it  grows  a  wee  monotonous 
in  time  ? " 

"  N'ever,"  I  retorted  stoutly.  "  l^ot  in  the  least.  Ko 
more  than  you  find  the  Lament  or  Dirge  of  Sandy  Mac- 
pherson  or  Hamish  MaclSTish  monotonous." 

He  cocked  his  ears  suddenly  and  stared  at  me.  Then 
his  chubby  face  split  slowly  from  ear  to  ear  in  the  widest 
grin  I  ever  saw,  and  up  went  both  his  hands. 

"  Kamerad !  "  said  he. 


The  Mule  and  the  Tank  91 

XV 
THE  MULE  A:N'D  THE  TANK 

THE  ammunition  columns  on  either  flank  provide  us 
with,  plenty  of  amusement.  They  seem  to  live  by 
stealing  each  other's  mules.  My  line-guards  tell  me  that 
stealthy  figures  leading  shadowy  donkeys  are  crossing  to 
and  fro  all  night  long  through  my  lines.  The  respective 
C.O.'s,  an  Australian  and  an  Irishman,  drop  in  on  us 
from  time  to  time  and  warn  us  against  each  other.  I 
remain  strictly  neutral,  and  so  far  they  have  respected 
my  neutrality.  I  have  taken  steps  toward  this  end  by 
surrounding  my  horses  with  barbed  wire  and  spring 
guns,  tying  bells  on  them  and  doubling  the  guard. 

Monk,  the  Australian,  dropped  in  on  us  two  or  three 
days  ago.  "  That  dam  Sinn  Feiner  is  the  limit,"  said 
he;  "  lifted  my  best  moke  off  me  last  night  while  I  was 
up  at  the  batteries.  He'd  pinch  Balaam's  ass."  "We 
murmured  condolences,  but  Monk  waved  them  aside. 
"  Oh,  it's  quite  all  right.  I  wasn't  bom  yesterday,  or 
the  day  before  for  that  matter.  I'll  make  that  merry 
Eenian  weep  tears  of  blood  before  I've  finished.  Just 
you  watch." 

O'Dwyer,  the  merry  Fenian,  called  next  day. 

"  Give  us  a  dhrink,  brother-officers,"  said  he.  "  I'm 
wake  wid  laughter." 

We  asked  what  had  happened. 


92  The  Mud  Larks 

"  Ye  know  that  lierrin'-gutted  bushranger  over 
yonder  ?  He'd  stale  the  milk  out  of  your  tea,  he  would, 
be  the  same  token.  Well,  last  night  he  got  vicious  and 
took  a  crack  at  my  lines.  I  had  rayson  to  suspect  he'd 
be  afther  tryin'  somethin'  on,  so  I  laid  for  him.  I 
planted  a  certain  mule  where  he  could  stale  it  an' 
guarded  the  rest  four  deep.  Begob,  will  ye  believe  me, 
but  he  fell  into  the  thrap  head  first — the  poor  simple 
divil." 

"  But  he  got  your  mule,"  said  Albert  Edward,  per- 
plexed. 

"  Shure  an'  he  did,  you  bet  he  did — he  got  old  Lyd- 
dite." 

Albert  Edward  and  I  were  still  puzzled. 

"  Very  high  explosive — hence  name,"  O'Dwyer  ex- 
plained. 

"  Dear  hearrts,"  he  went  on,  "  he's  got  my  stunt  mule, 
my  family  assassin!  That  long-ear  has  twenty-three 
casualties  to  his  credit,  including  a  Brigadier.  I  have 
to  twitch  him  to  harness  him,  side-line  him  to  groom 
him,  throw  him  to  clip  him,  and  dhrug  him  to  get  him 
shod.  Perceive  the  jest  now?  Esteemed  comrade  Monk 
is  afther  pinchin'  an  infallible  packet  o'  sudden  death, 
an'  he  don't  know  it — yet." 

"  What's  the  next  move  ?  "  I  inquired. 

"  I'm  going  to  lave  him  there.  Mind  you  I  don't 
want  to  lose  the  old  moke  altogether,  because,  to  tell  the 
truth,  I'm  a  biteen  fond  of  him  now  that  I  know  his 
thricks,  but  I  figure  Mr,  Monk  will  be  a  severely  cured 


The  Mule  and  the  Tank  93 

character  inside  a  week,  an'  return  the  beastie  himself 
with  tears  an'  apologies  on  vellum  so  long." 

I  met  O'Dwyer  again  two  days  later  on  the  mud  track. 
He  reined  up  his  cob  and  begged  a  cigarette. 

"  Been  havin'  the  fun  0'  the  worrld  down  at  the 
dressin'-station  watchin'  Monk's  casualties  rollin'  in," 
said  he.  "  Terrible  spectacle,  'nough  to  make  a  sthrong 
man  weep.  Mutual  friend  Monk  look  in'  'bout  as  genial 
as  a  wet  hen.  This  is  goin'  to  be  a  wondherful  lesson  to 
him.  See  you  later."  He  nudged  his  plump  cob  and 
ambled  off,  whistling  merrily. 

But  it  was  Monk  we  saw  later.  He  wormed  his  long 
corpse  into  "  Mon  Repos  "  and  sat  on  Albert  Edward's 
bed  laughing  like  a  tickled  hyena.  "  Funniest  thing  on 
earth,"  he  spluttered.  "  A  mule  strayed  into  my  lines 
t'other  night  and  refused  to  leave.  It  was  a  rotten 
beast,  a  holy  terror;  it  could  kick  a  fly  off  its  ears  and 
bite  a  man  in  half.  I  don't  mind  admitting  it  played 
battledore  and  what's-'is-name  with  my  organisation  for 
a  day  or  two,  but  out  of  respect  for  O'Dwyer,  blackguard 
though  he  is,  I   .    .    . " 

"  Oh,  so  it  was  O'Dwyer's  mule  ? "  Albert  Edward 
cut  in  innocently. 

Monk  nodded  hastily.  "  Yes,  so  it  turned  out.  Well, 
out  of  respect  for  O'Dwyer  I  looked  after  it  as  far  as  it 
would  allow  me,  naturally  expecting  he'd  come  over  and 
claim  it — but  he  didn't.  On  the  fourth  day,  after  it  had 
made  a  light  breakfast  off  a  bombardier's  ear  and  kicked 
a  gap  in  a  farrier,  I  got  absolutely  fed  up,  turned  the 
damn  cannibal  loose  and  gave  it  a  cut  with  a  whip  for 


94  The  Mud  Larks 

God-speed.  It  made  off  due  east,  cavorting  and  snorting 
until  it  reached  the  tank  track;  there  it  stopped  and 
picked  a  bit  of  grass.  Presently  along  comes  a  tank, 
proceeding  to  the  fray,  and  gives  the  mule  a  poke  in  the 
rear.  The  mule  lashes  out,  catching  the  tank  in  the 
chest,  and  then  goes  on  with  his  grazing  without  looking 
round,  leaving  the  tank  for  dead,  as  by  all  human  stand- 
ards it  should  have  been,  of  course.  But  instead  of 
being  dead  the  box  of  tricks  ups  and  gives  the  donk 
another  butt  and  moves  on.  That  roused  the  mule 
properly.  He  closed  his  eyes  and  laid  into  the  tank  for 
dear  life ;  you  could  hear  it  clanging  a  mile  away. 

"  After  delivering  two  dozen  of  the  best,  the  moke 
turned  round  to  sniff  the  cold  corpse,  but  the  corpse 
was  still  warm  and  smiling.  Then  the  mule  went  mad 
and  set  about  the  tank  in  earnest.  He  jabbed  it  in  the 
eye,  upper-cut  it  on  the  point,  hooked  it  behind  the  ear, 
banged  its  slats,  planted  his  left  on  the  mark  and  his 
right  on  the  solar  plexus,  but  still  the  tank  sat  up  and 
took  nourishment. 

"  Then  the  donkey  let  a  roar  out  of  him  and  closed 
with  it;  tried  the  half  Nelson,  the  back  heel,  the  scis- 
sors, the  roll,  and  the  flying-mare;  tried  Westmorland 
and  Cumberland  style,  collar  and  elbow,  Cornish, 
Grffico-Eoman,  seratch-as-scratch-can  and  Ju-jitsu. 
Nothing  doing.  Then  as  a  last  despairing  effort  he  tried 
to  charge  it  over  on  its  back  and  rip  the  hide  off  it  with 
his  teeth. 

"  But  the  old  tank  gave  a  '  good-by-ec '  cough  of  its 
exhaust  and  rumbled  off  as  if  nothing  had  happened, 


The  Mule  and  the  Tank  95 

nothing  at  all.  I  have  never  seen  such  a  look  of  sur- 
prise on  any  living  creature's  face  as  was  on  that  donk's. 
He  sank  down  on  his  tail,  gave  a  hissing  gasp  and  rolled 
over  stone  dead.    Broken  heart." 

"  Is  that  the  end  ? "  Albert  Edv^ard  inquired. 

"  It  is,"  said  Monk ;  "  and  if  you  go  outside  and  look 
half-right  you'll  see  the  bereaved  Mr.  O'Dwyer,  all  got 
up  in  sackcloth,  cinders  and  crepe  rosettes,  mooning  over 
the  deceased  like  a  dingo  on  an  ash  heap." 


96  The  Mud  Larks 


XVI 
WAE  PAINT 

AFTER  the  53rd  Lancers  had  been  in  the  trenches 
'^  for  seven  days — during  which  period  the  Boches 
hated  them  ceaselessly  with  whizz-bangs,  tear-shells, 
snipers,  coal-boxes,  hand  and  rifle  grenades,  spring  guns, 
rifle  batteries,  machine-guns,  gas  and  liquid  fire;  and 
something  celestial  leaked  badly  so  that  the  front  line 
gave  a  muddy  imitation  of  the  Grand  Canal,  Venice — 
the  infantry  relieved  them  and  they  came  out  looking 
like  nothing  on  earth. 

They  were  marched  into  an  ex-dye  factory,  boiled, 
fourteen  in  a  vat,  issued  with  a  change  of  underclothes 
and  marched  on  to  billets. 

The  53rd  being  a  smart  regiment,  they  were  given 
twenty-four  hours  to  lick  and  polish  themselves  like 
unto  the  stars  of  the  firmament  for  brightness,  or  never 
hear  the  last  of  it. 

In  twenty-four  hours  they  paraded  again,  according 
unto  orders,  and  the  stars  of  the  firmament  also  ran. 

At  noon  the  same  day  the  party  proceeding  on  Blighty 
leave  was  paraded  for  inspection  by  the  Orderly  OflScer. 

Pending  the  aiTival  of  the  O.O.,  the  Eegimental  Ser- 
geant-lVTajor  gave  them  a  preliminary  look  over. 

They  were  dressed  by  the  right  in  file,  chests  thrown 
in  the  air,  faces  shiny  with  soap  and  pink  from  razor- 


War  Paint  97 

ing.  Every  badge,  buckle  and  button  twinkled  a  chal- 
lenge back  at  the  sun,  every  spur  shone  like  a  bar  of 
silver,  their  leatherwork  gleamed  with  the  polish  bloom 
of  a  plum,  their  puttees  and  tunics  were  without  spot  or 
blemish,  every  cap  raked  slightly  over  every  right  ear. 
They  were  smart  men  of  a  smart  regiment,  whose  boast 
it  was  that  they  lived  and  died  glitteringly. 

The  K.S.M.  ran  a  grey  foxy  eye  over  and  through 
them.  At  the  sixth  file  from  the  right  he  paused,  stag- 
gered, blanched,  and  broke  into  tears. 

The  Regiment  was  disgraced,  the  name  gloriously 
won  by  dashing  generations  of  light  cavalry  men  was 
gone  for  ever.  Here  was  a  Fifty-third  proposing  to  go 
home  and  swank  about  England  practically  naked. 
Blankety  blankety  blank.  0  Lord  !  The  sixth  file  went 
pea-green  under  his  tan,  instinctively  felt  for  his  top 
left-hand  pocket  button  and  did  it  up. 

The  R.S.M.  went  on  his  way  down  the  line,  thrashing 
his  leggings  severely  with  his  whip  and  shaking  with 
emotion.  Ten  files  further  down  he  found  a  speck  of 
brass  polish  lurking  behind  a  belt-hook  and  didn't  ex- 
pect to  survive  it. 

Sixteenth  file  rubbed  it  off  with  a  handkerchief, 
trembling  all  over. 

The  0.0.  came  on  the  scene,  inspected  them  with  a 
swelling  of  pride  tightening  his  tunic,  found  a  few 
faults  as  a  matter  of  principle,  and  ordered  them 
away. 

The  R.S.M.  escorted  them  to  the  road,  dismissed 
them  with  his  blessing,  adjuring  them  to  be  good  little 


98  The  Mud  Larks 

boys  generally,  and  pay  his  respects  to  a  publican  near 
the  Elephant  and  Castle  if  they  passed  that  way. 

At  2  p.m.  they  entrained  at  the  railhead  along  with 
carolling  parties  from  the  thousand-and-one  units  that 
go  to  make  the  B.E.F. 

At  3  a.m.  they  detrained  in  the  dim-lit  vault  of  Vic- 
toria. As  they  tramped  out  of  the  gates  a  little  man, 
wearing  square  clothes  and  an  accent  that  twanged  like 
a  banjo,  bored  into  the  crowd. 

He  let  some  squads  of  mud-caked  line  infantry  go  by 
unmolested,  threw  but  a  cursory  glance  over  a  batch  of 
rain-sodden  gunners,  then  his  bright  eye  caught  the 
brighter  buttons  of  the  Fifty-thirds  and  he  swooped 
upon  them,  thrusting  pasteboards  into  every  hand.  The 
sixteenth  file  paused  with  his  chum  under  a  lamp  and 
read  his  card. 

It  ran  as  follows: 

OUR  HEROES'  SUPPLY  DEPT. 

Look  the  part  and  have  your  war-yarns  believed  at  home. 
Put  yourselves  in  our  hands  and  then  watch  the  girls  gather 
round. 

List  of  Charges 
Mud-spray     (patent    mud    guaranteed    to    stick    for 

five  days) Is. 

Bullet-holes  (punched  in  cap  or  tunic)   ....  3d.  each. 

Blood-stains    (indelible) 6d.      " 

Prayer-book    (with  embedded  bullet)      .        .        .        .  2s.  6d. 

We  have  also  a  large  stock  of  souvenirs — shell  fragments,  bul- 
lets, German  caps,  helmets,  etc.,  at  moderate  charges. 
Call  and  see  us  right  now.    Depot  just  round  the  block. 

The  sixteenth  file  looked  at  his  chum,  fingering  his 
card  uneasily.  "  Well,  Bob,  what  d'you  say  ?  My 
lassie  is  won'erful  'ard  to  convince." 


War  Paint  99 

"  I'm  with  you,"  said  his  friend.  "  Mother  is  a  fair 
terror  too." 

They  tramped  after  the  little  man. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later  they  might  have  been  seen 
tramping  back  down  Victoria  Street  looking  like  noth- 
ing on  earth. 


100  The  Mud  Larks 


xvn 

THE  PINCH  OF  WAK 

I  CAME  across  him  on  the  rim  of  the  bog.  He  stood 
before  a  whitewashed  cabin  glaring  fiercely  over  the 
brown  world. 

A  coal-black  dudeen  hung  empty  and  bottom  up  from 
his  puckered  mouth,  a  rumpled  frieze  cap  was  perilously 
balanced  atop  of  a  fringe  of  white  hair.  His  full  figure, 
upholstered  in  a  worn  velvet  waistcoat,  was  thrust  well 
forward  as  if  daring  Eate  to  hit  it  another  blow. 

At  the  moment  he  was  acting  as  a  scratching-post  to 
a  large  white  billy-goat,  which  chafed  itself  luxuriously 
to  and  fro  against  his  straddled  legs.  At  the  sound  of 
my  horse's  hoofs  he  turned  his  head.  At  the  sight  of 
my  uniform  his  eyes  brightened,  he  withdrew  a  smutty 
hand  from  a  corduroy  pocket  and  made  a  travesty  of  a 
salute  towards  his  cap,  which  almost  lost  its  balance. 

"  Hey !  Good  day  to  ye,  Captain !  "  (I  am  a  second 
lieutenant,  but  in  Ireland  every  lance-corporal  has  vis- 
ionary batons  on  his  shoulder-straps.) 

I  replied  suitably,  agreed  that  the  weather  was  fine 
for  the  second  and  trusted,  if  we  were  good,  we  might 
have  an  hour  of  it. 

"  How  is  it  wid  the  War  this  momin',  yer  honour  ?  " 

I  replied  that,  as  far  as  I  knew,  it  was  still  there, 
had  passed  a  quiet  night  and  was  doing  nicely,  thanks. 


The  Pinch  of  War  loi 

"  Was  you  ever  at  the  Front,  Captain  ?  " 

I  nodded,  and  at  that  his  eyes  gleamed. 

''  Begob !— then  'tis  yerself  has  the  luck.  Wait  till  I 
tell  you  a  minute.  I'm  afther  wishin'  be  all  the  Blessed 
Saints  I  was  twinty  year  younger,  'tis  meself  would  be 
the  first  afther  them  German  Daygoes — I  would  so,  the 
dirthy,  desthroyin'  blagyards !  Tell  me  now,  Captain 
dear,  did  you  ever  kill  wan  of  them  at  all  ?  " 

He  hung  on  my  answer  to  such  an  extent  that  the 
white  billy  tore  a  tatter  from  his  canvas  coat  and  ate 
it  unrebuked. 

I  wagged  my  head.     "  Don't  know — couldn't  say." 

"  Och,  shure,  no !  What  would  a  grand  gentleman 
like  yourself  be  wantin'  wid  such  dirthy  work — 'tis  a 
common  private's  job,  so  it  is.  But  was  meself  twinty 
year  younger  'twould  be  a  job  I  would  take  great  delight 
in  the  doin'  of  it.  I  would  take  great  delight  in  landin' 
wan  o'  them  blagyards  a  puck  wid  a  bay'net  that  would 
let  the  daylight  through  him.  I  would  have  great 
courage  an'  delight  in  a  war  wid  such  as  they  be,  that's 
the  blessed  truth,  the  dirthy,  desthroyin',  murdherin' 
divils!    Arragh!    I  hate  them!  " 

He  shook  a  grimy  fist  in  the  general  direction  of 
America,  and  the  billy,  undisturbed,  reached  up  and 
ate  another  ribbon  off  his  coat. 

"  Beggin'  yer  pardon,  but  will  yer  honour  be  goin' 
back  to  the  War?" 

I  said  I  hoped  so  some  day. 

"  Listen,  then — I'm  wishin'  ye  would  kill  a  German, 


I02  The  Mud  Larks 

two  Germans,  d'ye  hear  me  now?  Two  Germans  I'm 
afther  wishin'  ye." 

Again  he  brandished  a  trembling  fist  aloft  and  again 
the  billy,  fearing  naught,  grazed  its  way  up  his  back. 

"  Thanks,  very  good  of  you,"  said  I.  "  I'll  remem- 
ber.   Good  day." 

"  Good  day  it  is,  an'  God  save  yer  honour !  " 

Then  with  an  overwhelming  burst  of  generosity  he 
promoted  me  two  ranks  at  once  and  wished  again. 

"  Colonel,"  he  said  solemnly,  though  shaking  with 
passion,  "  I'm  afther  wishin'  ye  three — ten — fifteen 
Germans !  " 

"  Thanks,"  I  said  again,  and  picked  up  the  reins, 
wondering  if  tragedy  had  shadowed  the  bogside  that 
morning,  if  some  grey-eyed,  black-haired  boy  would 
come  home  no  more  from  Flanders  to  that  whitewashed 
cabin. 

As  I  turned  a  beshawled  girl  poked  her  head  round 
the  door  lintel  and  smiled  at  me. 

"  Och,  faith,  don't  be  noticin'  the  granda',  yer  hon- 
our; himself  was  beyond  to  the  town  this  mornin',  an' 
they've  riz  the  price  o'  porther  on  him  wan  ha'penny. 
He  do  be  as  mad  as  the  Sivinteen  Divils !  " 


The  Regimental  Mascot  103 

XVIII 
THE  REGIMENTAL  MASCOT 

WHEN  his  honour  the  Colonel  took  the  owld  rigi- 
ment  to  France,  Herself  came  home  bringin'  the 
rigimental  mascot  with  her.  A  big  white  long-haired 
billy-goat  he  was,  the  same. 

"  I'll  not  be  afther  lavin'  him  at  the  daypo,"  says 
Herself;  "'tis  no  place  for  a  domestic  animal  at  all, 
the  language  them  little  drummer-boys  uses,  the  dear 
knows,"  says  she. 

So  me  bowld  mascot  he  stops  up  at  the  Castle  and 
makes  free  with  the  flower-beds  and  the  hall  and  the 
drawin'-room  and  the  domestic  maids  the  way  he'd  be 
the  Lord-Lieutenant  0'  the  land,  and  not  jist  a  plain 
human  Angory  goat.  A  proud  arrygent  crature  it  is, 
be  the  powers !  Steppin'  about  as  disdainy  as  a  Dublin 
gerrl  in  Ballydehob,  and  if,  mebbe,  you'd  address  him 
for  to  get  off  your  flower-beds  with  the  colour  of  anger 
in  your  mouth  he'd  let  a  roar  out  of  him  like  a  Sligo 
piper  with  poteen  taken,  and  fetch  you  a  skelp  with 
his  horns  that  would  lay  you  out  for  dead. 

And  sorra  the  use  is  it  of  complainin'  to  Herself. 

"  Ah,  Delaney,  'tis  the  marshal  sperit  widin  him," 
she'd  say ;  "  we  must  be  patient  with  him  for  the  sake 
of  the  owld  rigiment " ;  and  with  that  she'd  start  hand- 


104  The  Mud  Larks 

feedin'  him  with  warmed-up  sponge  cake  and  playin' 
with  his  long  silky  hair. 

"  Far  be  it  from  me,"  I  says  to  Mikeen,  the  herd,  "  to 
question  the  workings  o'  Providence,  but  were  I  the 
Colonel  of  a  rigiment,  which  I  am  not,  and  had  to  have 
a  mascot,  it's  not  a  raparee  billy  I'd  be  afther  havin', 
but  a  nanny,  or  mebbe  a  cow,  that  would  step  along 
dacently  with  the  rigiment  and  bring  ye  luck,  and  mebbe 
a  dropeen  o'  milk  for  the  oriicers'  tea  as  well.  If  it's 
such  cratures  that  bring  ye  fortune  may  I  die  a  peaceful 
death  in  a  poor-house,"  says  I. 

"  I'm  wid  ye,"  says  Mikeen,  groanin',  he  bein'  spotted 
like  a  leopard  with  bruises  by  rason  of  him  havin'  to 
comb  the  mascot's  silky  hair  twice  daily,  and  the  quick 
temper  of  the  baste  at  the  tangles. 

The  long  of  a  summer  the  billy  stops  up  at  the  Castle, 
archin'  his  neck  at  the  wurrld  and  growin'  prouder  and 
prouder  by  dint  of  the  standin'  he  had  with  the  owld 
rigiment  and  the  high  feedin'  he  had  from  Herself. 
Faith,  'tis  a  great  delight  we  servints  had  of  him  I'm 
tellin'  ye !  It  was  as  much  as  your  life's  blood  was 
worth  to  cross  his  path  in  the  garden,  and  if  the  domestic 
maids  would  be  meetin'  him  in  the  house  they'd  let  him 
eat  the  dresses  off  them  before  they  dare  say  a  word. 

In  the  autumn  me  bowld  mascot  gets  a  wee  trifle 
powerful  by  dint  o'  the  high  feedin'  and  the  natural 
nature  of  the  crature.  Herself,  wid  her  iligant  lady's 
nose,  is  afther  noticin'  it,  and  she  sends  wan  o'  the 
gerrls  to  tell  meself  and  Mikeen  to  wash  the  baste. 

"  There  will  be  murdher  done  this  day,"  says  I  to  the 


The  Regimental  Mascot  105 

lad,  "  but  'tis  the  orders.  Go  get  the  cart  rope  and  the 
chain  off  the  bulldog,  and  we'll  do  it.  Faith,  it  isn't  all 
the  bravery  that's  at  the  Front,"  says  I. 

''  That's  the  true  wurrd,"  says  he,  rubbin'  the  lumps 
on  his  shins,  the  poor  boy. 

''  Oh,  Delaney,"  says  the  domestic  gerrl,  drawin'  a 
bottle  from  her  apron  pocket.  "  Herself  says  will  ye 
plaze  be  so  obligin'  as  to  sprinkle  the  mascot  wid  a 
dropeen  of  this  ody-koloney  scent — mebbe  it  will  quench 
his  powerfulness,  she  says." 

I  put  the  bottle  in  me  pocket.  "We  tripped  up  me 
brave  goat  with  the  rope,  got  the  bull's  collar  and  chain, 
and  dragged  him  away  towards  the  pond,  him  buckin' 
and  ragin'  between  us  like  a  Tyrone  Street  lady  in  the 
arms  of  the  poliss.  To  hear  the  roars  he  let  out  of 
him  would  turn  your  hearts  cowld  as  lead,  but  we  held 
on. 

The  Saints  were  wid  us ;  in  half  an  hour  we  had  him 
as  wet  as  an  eel,  and  broke  the  bottle  of  ody-koloney 
over  his  back. 

He  was  clane  mad.  "  God  save  us  all  when  he  gets 
that  chain  off  him !  "  I  says.  "  God  save  us  it  is !  "  says 
Mikeen,  looking  around  for  a  tree  to  shin. 

Just  at  the  minut  we  heard  a  great  screechin'  0'  dogs, 
and  through  the  fence  comes  the  harrier  pack  that  the 
Reserve  orficers  kept  in  the  camp  beyond.  ("  Har- 
riers "  they  called  them,  but,  begob !  there  wasn't  any- 
thin'  they  wouldn't  hunt  from  a  fox  to  a  turkey,  those 
ones. ) 

"  What  are  they  afther  chasin'  ?  "  says  Mikeen. 


io6  The  Mud  Larks 

"  'Tis  a  stag  to-day,  be  the  newspapers/'  I  says,  "  but 
the  dear  knows  they'll  not  cotch  him  this  month,  be 
must  be  gone  by  this  half-hour,  and  the  breath  is  from 
them,  their  tongues  is  hangin'  out  a  yard,"  I  says. 

'Twas  at  that  moment  the  Blessed  Saints  gave  me 
wisdom. 

"  Mikeen,"  I  says,  "  drag  the  mascot  out  before  them; 
we'll  see  sport  this  day." 

"  Herself "  he  begins. 

"  Hoult  your  whisht,"  says  I,  "  and  come  on."  With 
that  we  dragged  me  bowld  goat  out  before  the  dogs  and 
let  go  the  chain. 

The  dogs  sniffed  up  the  strong  blast  of  ody-koloney 
and  let  a  yowl  out  of  them  like  all  the  banshees  in  the 
nation  of  Ireland,  and  the  billy  legged  it  for  his  life — 
small  blame  to  him ! 

Meself  and  Mikeen  climbed  a  double  to  see  the  sport. 

"  They  have  him,"  says  Mikeen.  "  They  have  not," 
says  I ;  "  the  crature  howlds  them  by  two  lengths." 

"  He  has  doubled  on  them,"  says  Mikeen ;  "  he  is  as 
sly  as  a  Jew." 

"  He  is  forninst  the  rabbit  holes  now,"  I  says.  "  I 
thank  the  howly  Saints  he  cannot  burrow." 

"  He  has  tripped  up — they  have  him  bayed,"  says 
Mikeen. 

And  that  was  the  mortal  truth,  the  dogs  had  him. 

Oh,  but  it  was  a  bowld  billy!  He  went  in  among 
those  hounds  like  a  lad  to  a  fair,  you  could  hear  his 
horns  lambastin'  their  ribs  a  mile  away.  But  they 
were  too  many  for  him  and  bit  the  grand  silky  hair  off 


The  Regimental  Mascot  107 

him  by  the  mouthful.  The  way  it  flew  you'd  think  it 
was  a  snowstorm. 

"  They  have  him  desthroyed,"  says  Mikeen. 

"  They  have,"  says  I,  "  God  be  praised !  " 

At  the  moment  the  huntsman  leps  his  harse  up  on 
the  double  beside  us ;  he  was  phlastered  with  muck  from 
his  hair  to  his  boots. 

"  What  have  they  out  there  ? "  says  he,  blinkin' 
through  the  mud  and  not  knowin'  rightly  what  his 
hounds  were  coursin'  out  before  him,  whether  it  would 
be  a  stag  or  a  Bengal  tiger. 

"  'Tis  her  ladyship's  Eile  Imperial  Mascot  Goat," 
says  I ;  "  an'  God  save  your  honour,  for  she'll  have 
your  blood  in  a  bottle  for  this  day's  worrk." 

The  huntsman  lets  a  curse  out  of  his  stummick  and 
rides  afther  them,  flat  on  his  saddle,  both  spurs  tearin'. 
In  the  wink  of  an  eye  he  is  do"VMi  among  the  dogs,  lar- 
rupin'  them  with  his  whip  and  drawin'  down  curses  on 
them  that  would  wither  ye  to  hear  him — he  had  great 
eddication,  that  orficer. 

"  Come  now,"  says  I  to  Mikeen,  the  poor  lad,  "  let 
you  and  me  bear  the  cowld  corpse  of  the  diseased  back 
to  Herself,  mebbe  she'll  have  a  shillin'  handy  in  her 
hand,  the  way  she'd  reward  us  for  saving  the  body 
from  the  dogs,"  says  I. 

But  was  me  bowld  mascot  dead?  He  was  not.  He 
was  alive  and  well,  the  thickness  of  his  wool  had  saved 
him.  For  all  that  he  had  not  a  hair  of  it  left  to  him, 
and  when  he  stood  up  before  you,  you  wouldn't  know 
him;  he  was  that  ordinary  without  his  fleece,  he  was 


io8  The  Mud  Larks 

no  more  than  a  common  poor  man's  goat,  he  was  no  more 
to  look  at  than  a  skinned  rabbit,  and  that's  the  truth. 

He  walked  home  with  meself  and  Mikeen  as  meek  as 
a  young  gerrl. 

Herself  came  runnin'  out,  all  flutterj,  to  look  at  him. 

"  Ah,  but  that's  not  my  mascot,"  she  says. 

"  It  is,  Marm,"  says  I ;  and  I  swore  to  it  by  the  whole 
Calendar — ^^likeen  too. 

"  Bah !  how  disgustin'.  Take  it  to  the  cowhouse," 
says  she,  and  stepped  indoors  without  another  word. 

We  led  the  billy  away,  him  hangin'  his  head  for 
shame  at  his  nakedness. 

"  Ye'll  do  no  more  mascotin'  avic,"  says  I  to  him. 
"  Sorra  luck  you  would  bring  to  a  blind  beggar-man  the 
way  you  are  now — you'll  never  step  along  again  with 
the  drums  and  tambourines." 

And  that  was  the  true  word,  for  though  Herself  had 
Mikeen  rubbing  him  daily  with  bear's  grease  and  hair 
lotion  he  never  grew  the  same  grand  fleece  again,  and 
he'd  stand  about  in  the  backfield,  brooding  for  hours 
together,  the  divilment  clane  gone  out  of  his  system ;  and 
if,  mebbe,  you'd  draw  the  stroke  of  an  ash-plant  across 
his  ribs  to  hearten  him,  he'd  only  just  look  at  you,  sad- 
like  and  pass  no  remarks. 


War  Vegetation  109 

XIX 
WAR  VEGETATION 

TTIIS  her  ladyship  up  at  the  Castle  that  has  the  War 

-^     at  heart ;  'tis  no  laiighin'  matter  wid  her. 

She  came  hack  from  England  wid  the  grandest  mod- 
ern notions  for  conductin'  the  war  in  the  home  that  ever 
ye'd  see,  an'  a  foreign  domestic  maid  she  had  hired  in 
London. 

"  'Tis  a  poor  Belgium  refuge  she  is,  Dclaney,"  says 
Herself  to  meself.  "  In  the  home  she  is  afther  lavin' 
there  is  nothing  left  standin'  but  the  wine-cellar,  an' 
that  full  o'  German  Huns — she  is  wet  wid  weepin'  yet," 
says  Herself ;  "  so  be  kind  to  her,  for  we  must  help 
our  brave  Allies." 

So  the  Belgium  refuge  walks  into  the  Castle  an'  be- 
comes lady's  maid.  A  fine,  upstandin'  colleen  it  is,  too, 
by  the  same  token,  wid  notions  in  dhress  that  turned  all 
the  counthry  gurrls  contemptjous  wid  envy,  an'  a  hat 
on  the  head  of  her  that  was  like  a  conservatory  for  the 
flowers  that  was  in  it.  But  did  Herself's  war  work 
stop  at  adoptin'  our  brave  Alice  ?  It  did  not.  She  gave 
the  young  ladies  of  the  high  nobility  a  powerful  organ- 
isin',  an'  they'd  be  in  at  Ballydrogeen  every  day  0'  the 
week  sellin'  Frinch,  Eyetalian,  Rooshan,  an'  Japan  flags 
an'  makin'  a  mint  o'  money  at  it.  The  lads  that  would 
be  comin'  into  Ballydrogeen  Fair  to  do  a  bit  of  hand 


no  The  Mud  Larks 

slappin'  over  a  pig,  an'  mebbe  taste  a  tageen  wid  the 
liickpennj,  would  dishcover  themselves  goin'  home  in 
the  ass  cart,  pig  an'  all,  sober  as  stones  an'  plasthered 
thick  wid  flags  the  way  you'd  think  they'd  be  the  winnin' 
boat  at  Galway  Regatta.  For  'tis  a  bould  bouchal  will 
stand  up  to  the  young  ladies  of  the  high  nobility  whin 
they  have  their  best  dhresses  on  an'  do  be  prancin'  up 
to  ye,  the  smiles  an'  blarney  dhrippin'  from  them  like 
golden  syrup,  wid  their  "  Oh,  Mickey,  how  is  your  dear 
darlint  baby?  Have  ye  not  the  least  little  shillin'  for 
me,  thin  ? "  or  their  "  Good  day  to  ye,  Terry  Ryan ; 
I'm  all  in  love  wid  that  bay  colt  ye  have,  an'  I  will 
plague  my  Da  into  his  grave  until  he  buys  him  for  me. 
Will  ye  not  have  a  small  triflin'  flag  from  me,  Terry 
Ryan?" 

But  did  Herself 's  war  work  stop  at  flag  selling?  It 
did  not.  Wan  mornin'  she  comes  steppin'  down  the 
garden  as  elegant  as  a  champion  hackney,  holdin'  her 
skirts  high  out  of  the  wet. 

"  Is  that  you,  Delaney  ?  "  says  she. 

"  It  is,  your  ladyship,"  says  I,  crawlin'  out  from 
behindt  the  swate  pays. 

"  Listen  to  me,"  says  she.  "  Thim  flowers  is  nothin' 
but  a  luxury  these  days.  I'll  have  nothin'  but  war 
vigitables  in  my  garden." 

Says  I,  "  Beggin'  your  pardon,  but  phwat  may  they 
be  ?  "  She  was  puzzled  for  a  moment,  an'  stands  there 
scratchin'  her  ear  as  ye  might  say. 

"  Oh,  jist  ordinary  vigitables,  only  grown  under  war 
conditions,"  says  she  at  length.    "  At  anny  rate  I'll  have 


War  Vegetation  in 

no  flowers,  so  desthroy  thim  entirely,  an'  grow  vigitables 
in  their  place — d'you  understand  ?  "  says  she. 

"  I  do,  your  ladyship,"  says  I. 

I  wint  within  to  tell  Anne  Toher,  the  cook.  "  Herself 
is  for  desthroyin'  the  flowers  entirely,  an'  plantin'  war 
vigitables,"  says  I. 

"  An'  phwat  may  they  be  ?  "  says  the  woman. 

"  The  same  as  ordinary  vigitables,  only  growed  under 
war  conditions,"  says  I.  "  Ivvry  spud  doin'  its  duty, 
iwry  parsnip  strugglin'  to  be  two.  We  will  have  car- 
rots an'  onions  in  ivvry  bed  up  to  the  front  door,  Frinch 
beans  trained  all  over  the  porch.  Ye'll  jist  lane  out 
of  the  kitchen  w-inda  an'  gather  in  the  dinner  yourself ; 
'twill  be  a  great  savin'  o'  labour,"  says  I. 

"  An'  phwat'll  ye  do  for  the  table  decorations  whin 
the  gintry  comes  callin'  ?  "  says  Anne  Toher. 

"  Faith,"  says  I,  "  'tis  aisy  done ;  I  will  jist  set  a 
bookay  o'  hothouse  cabbages  in  the  vases,  an'  if,  mebbe, 
the  Colonel  would  be  comin'  home  on  lave  an'  should 
ax  a  nosegay  to  stick  in  his  coat,  begob  I'll  have  a  fine 
sprig  of  parsley  for  him,"  says  I. 

"  Ye  poor  man,"  says  she,  "  'twill  sour  the  heart 
within  ye."  Ah !  That  was  the  true  word,  'twas  like 
pullin'  me  heart's  blood  out  be  the  roots  to  desthroy  thim 
flowers ;  but  it  had  to  be  done.    War  is  war. 

By  June  the  garden  was  nothin'  but  a  say  of  vigi- 
tables, an'  divil  a  touch  of  colour  to  take  your  eye  was 
there  in  it,  no  matter  how  long  you'd  look. 

Wan  day  I  am  up  at  the  yard,  seein'  if,  mebbe,  Anne 
Toher  would  have  the  taste  o'  tay  in  the  pot,  meself 


112  The  Mud  Larks 

bavin'  a  thirst  on  me  that  would  face  the  Shannon  by 
dint  of  the  hoein'  I  was  afther  doin'  in  the  spud  planta- 
tions, whin  the  woman  puts  her  head  out  of  the  kitchen 
winda.  "  Whist,  Dclaney,"  says  she,  "  there's  gintry  to 
lunch,"  says  she. 

"  Phwat  gintry  ?  "  says  I. 

"  Sir  Patrick  Freebody,  o'  Michaelstown,'*  says  she, 
an'  at  that  me  blood  run  cowld. 

Sir  Patrick  Freebody  had  the  grandest  garden  over 
at  Michaelstown  that  ivver  you'd  see  in  the  nation  of 
Ireland,  an'  a  cousin  to  me,  John  O'Callaghan,  was 
gardener  to  him.  There  was  no  love  betwane  us  either, 
by  the  same  token.  I  would  as  soon  wake  John  O'Cal- 
laghan as  I  would  the  Divil,  an'  that's  the  morthal  truth, 
for  all  that  he  was  a  cousin  to  me. 

I  knew  how  'twould  be  as  sure  as  I  was  alive  in  this 
worrld.  Owld  Sir  Pat  would  be  into  lunch  before  a 
bare  board,  an'  whin  he  wint  home  to  Michaelstown  he 
would  be  tellin'  John  O'Callaghan,  an'  I  would  be 
skinned  raw  wid  the  jeerin'  an'  blaggardin'  the  same 
John  O'Callaghan  would  have  wid  me. 

"  Whisper,  whin  will  they  be  atein'  ? "  says  I  to 
Anne  Toher. 

"  In  ten  minutes,  please  God,  an'  the  spuds  are  soft,'* 
says  she. 

"  Begob,"  says  I  to  meself,  "  I'll  set  flowers  on 
that  table  or  cut  my  throat  across,"  an'  I  ran  away,  not 
knowin'  where  I'd  be  findin'  thim,  not  within  five  miles. 
But  I  was  not  half-way  round  the  laurel  bushes  whin 
the  Blessed  Saints  sent  me  light. 


War  Vegetation  113 

In  sivin  minuites  I  had  flowers  in  the  middle  bowl, 
an'  backed  away  behindt  the  hat-racks  as  Herself  an' 
owld  Sir  Pat  comes  out  of  the  drawin*-room  an'  goes 
in  to  lunch.  I  set  me  eye  to  the  kayhole  and  watched, 
me  heart  like  water  betwane  me  teeth. 

Owld  Sir  Pat,  he  mumbles  an'  coughs  an'  talks  about 
the  weather,  an'  the  war,  an'  the  recruitin'. 

Herself  she  talks  about  the  soldiers'  shest-protectors 
an'  her  war  work,  an'  how  she  was  scared  the  Colonel 
was  sittin'  about  at  the  Front  wid  wet  fate. 

Presently  the  owld  man  notices  the  flowers  in  the 
bowl  an'  lanes  over  the  table  blinkin'  at  thim  through 
his  spectacles  in  his  half-blind  way. 

"  Lovely  flowers  ye  have  there,  Lady  Nugent,  positive 
blaze  o'  colour.    How  do  you  do  it?    Now,  that  scamp 

of  a  gardener  of  mine "    He  sits  back  again,  tellin' 

Herself  how  John  O'Callaghan  had  left  his  chrysanthe- 
mums go  to  ruination  wid  blight.  Her  Ladyship  takes 
wan  look  at  the  flowers,  her  eyebrows  go  up,  she  turns 
as  red  as  a  bateroot  and  bites  her  lip,  but  says  nothin'. 
God  bless  her !  I  backed  away,  breathin'  aisy  once  more, 
but  at  that  minuite  down  the  stairs  comes  our  brave 
Alice,  the  Belgium  refuge,  all  of  a  lather,  gabbing  like 
a  turkey  in  the  foreign  tongue,  and  runs  straight  for 
the  dinin'-room  door. 

'Tis  a  mercy  I  have  the  quick  wit ;  I  pulled  down  the 
Colonel's  dhress-sword  from  where  it  hung  on  the  wall 
and  headed  her  off,  wavin'  it  at  her  the  way  I'd  draw 
the  stroke  of  it  across  her  windpipe.  She  wint  leppin' 
back  up  the  stairs  like  a  mountainy  hare  among  the 


114  The  Mud  Larks 

rocks,  thinkin',  mebbe,  the  German  Huns  was  come  at 
her  again  out  of  the  wine-cellar. 

An  hour  later  I  heard  owld  Sir  Pat's  car  lavin'  the 
front  door,  so  I  sheathed  me  sword  an'  let  her  out  of  her 
bedroom  where  she  had  herself  locked  in. 

A  strong  shindy  the  gurrl  raised,  an'  Herself  forced 
me  to  buy  her  a  new  hat  out  of  me  wages,  seein'  that 
her  owld  wan  was  desthroyed  by  dint  of  the  soakin'  an' 
crushin'  it  had  in  the  flower  bowl ;  but  sorra  the  bit  did 
I  care,  for  I  passed  John  O'Callaghan  beyond  in  Mi- 
chaelstown  on  Sunday,  an'  divil  a  word  said  he,  but 
scowled  at  me  in  a  way  that  did  my  heart  good  to  see. 


A  Change  of  Front  115 

XX 

A  CHANGE  OF  FRONT 

WE  fell  asleep  with  goose  feathers  of  snow  whirling 
against  the  carriage  windows,  and  woke  to  see 
a  shot-silk  sea  flinging  white  lace  along  a  fairy  coast  on 
one  side  and  pink  and  yellow  villas  nesting  among  groves 
of  palm  and  orange  on  the  other. 

"  Of  course  this  sort  of  thing  doesn't  happen  in  real 
life,"  said  Albert  Edward,  flattening  his  proboscis 
against  the  pane.  "  Either  it's  all  a  dream  or  else  those 
oranges  will  suddenly  light  up;  George  Grossmith,  in 
a  topper  and  spats,  will  trip  in  from  the  O.P.  side; 
girls  will  blossom  from  every  palm,  and  all  ranks  get 
busy  with  song  and  prance — tra-la-la!  " 

The  Babe  kicked  his  blankets  off  and  sat  up.  "  Noth- 
ing of  the  sort.  We've  arrived  in  well-known  Italy, 
that's  all.  Capital — Eome.  Exports — old  masters, 
chianti  and  barrel-organs.  Faces  South  and  is  centrally 
heated  by  Vesuvius." 

We  rattled  into  a  cutting,  the  sides  of  which  were 
decorated  with  posters :  "  Good  Healt  at  the  England," 
"  Good  Luck  at  Tommy,"  and  drew  up  in  a  flag- 
festooned  station,  on  the  platform  of  which  was  a  depu- 
tation of  smiling  signorinas  who  presented  the  Atkinses 
with  postcards,  fruit  and  cigarettes,  and  ourselves  with 
flowers. 


ii6  The  Mud  Lark? 

"  Very  hon — eh,  what  ?  "  said  the  Babe  as  the  train 
resumed  its  rumblings.  "  All  the  same  I  wish  we  could 
thank  them  prettily  and  tell  them  how  pleased  we  are 
we've  come.    Does  anybody  handle  the  patter  ?  " 

Albert  Edward  thought  he  did.  "  Used  to  swot  up 
a  lot  of  Italian  literature  when  I  was  a  lad;  technical 
military  stufiF  about  the  divisions  of  Gaul  by  one  J. 
Csesar." 

"  Too  technical  for  everyday  use,"  I  objected.  "  A 
person  called  D'Annunzio  is  their  best  seller  now,  I 
believe." 

"  Somebody'd  better  hop  off  the  bus  at  the  next 
stop  and  buy  a  book  of  the  words,"  said  the  Babe. 

At  the  next  halt  I  dodged  the  deputation  and  pur- 
chased a  phrase-book  with  a  Union  Jack  on  the  cover, 
entitled  The  English  Soldier  in  Italy,  published  in 
Milan. 

Among  military  terms,  grouped  under  the  beading 
of  "  The  Worldly  War,"  a  garetta  (sentry-box)  is  de- 
fined as  "  a  watchbox,"  and  the  machine-gunner  will  be 
surprised  to  find  himself  described  as  "  a  grapeshot- 
man."  It  has  also  short  conversations  for  current 
use. 

"  Have  you  of  any  English  papers  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,  there's  The  Times  and  Tit-Bits." 

(Is  it  possible  that  the  land  of  Virgil,  of  Horace  and 
Dante  knows  not  The  Daily  Mail?) 

"Give  me,  please,  many  biscuits." 

"  'No,  sir,  we  have  no  biscuits ;  the  fabrication  of 
them  has  been  avoided  by  Government.'* 


A  Change  of  Front  117 

"  Waiter,  show  me  a  good  bed  where  one  may  sleep 
undisturbated." 

In  the  train: — 

"  Dickens !    I  have  lost  my  ticket." 

"  Alas,  you  shall  pay  the  price  of  another.'' 

A  jocular  vein  is  recommended  with  cabbies : — 

"  Coachman,  are  you  free  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Then  long  live  liberty." 

Very  young  subalterns  with  romantic  notions  may 
waste  good  beer-money  on  foreign  phrase-books  and  get 
themselves  enravelled  in  hopeless  international  tangles, 
but  not  old  Atkins.  The  English  soldier  in  Italy  will 
speak  what  he  has  always  spoken  with  complete  success 
in  Poperinghe,  Amiens,  Cairo,  Salonika,  Dar-es-Salaam, 
Bagdad  and  Jerusalem,  to  wit,  English. 

But  to  return  to  our  train.  At  nightfall  we  left  the 
fairy  coast  behind,  its  smiling  signorinas,  flags,  flowers 
and  fruit,  and  swarmed  up  a  pile  of  perpendicular 
scenery  from  summer  to  winter.  During  a  halt  in  the 
midst  of  moonlit  snows  our  carriage  door  was  opened 
and  we  beheld  outside  an  Italian  officer,  who  saluted  and 
gave  us  an  exhibition  of  his  native  tongue  at  rapid  fire. 

"  He's  referring  to  us,"  said  the  Babe.  "  Answer 
him,  somebody ;  tell  him  we're  on  his  side  and  all  that." 

"  Viva  V  Italia,"  William  exclaimed  promptly. 

The  Italian  countered  with  a  "  Viva  V Inghilterra  " 
and  swept  on  with  his  monologue. 

"  Seems  to  want  something,"  said  Albert  Edward. 
"  Wonder  if  Caesar  is  too  technical  for  him." 


ii8  The  Mud  Larks 

"  Eead  him  something  from  The  English  Soldier  in 
Italy,"  I  suggested. 

The  Babe  thumbed  feverishly  through  the  handbook. 
"  '  Let  us  get  in ;  the  guard  has  already  cried  ' — No, 
that  won't  do.  '  Give  me  a  walk  and  return  ticket, 
please ' — That  won't  do  either.  '  Yes,  I  have  a  trunk 
and  a  carpet-bag' — Oh,  this  is  absurd."  He  cast  the 
book  from  him. 

At  that  moment  the  engine  hooted,  the  trucks  gave  a 
preliminary  buck  and  started  to  jolt  forward.  The 
Italian  sprang  upon  the  running  board  and,  clinging 
to  the  hand-rail,  continued  to  declaim  emotionally 
through  the  window.  William  became  alarmed.  "  This 
chap  has  something  on  his  mind.  Perhaps  he's  trying 
to  tell  us  that  a  bridge  has  blown  up,  or  that  the  train 
is  moving  without  a  movement  order,  or  the  chauffeur 
is  drunk.  For  Heaven's  sake  somebody  do  something 
— quick !  " 

Thereupon  Babel  broke  loose,  each  of  us  in  his  panic 
blazing  off  in  the  foreign  language  which  came  easiest 
to  his  tongue. 

William  called  for  a  bath  in  Arabic.  The  Babe  de- 
manded champagne  in  French.  Albert  Edward  de- 
clined mensa,  while  I,  by  the  luckiest  chance,  struck  a 
language  which  the  Italian  recognised  with  a  glad  yelp. 
In  a  moment  explanations  were  over  and  I  had  swung 
him  into  the  carriage  and  slammed  the  door. 

The  new-comer  was  a  lieutenant  of  mountain  artil- 
lery. He  was  returning  from  leave,  had  confided  him- 
self to  the  care  of  a  Railway  Transport  Officer,  had  in 


A  Change  of  Front  119 

consequence  missed  every  regular  train  and  wanted  a 
lift  to  the  next  junction.  That  was  all.  I  then  set 
about  to  make  him  as  comfortable  as  possible,  wrapping 
him  in  one  of  the  Babe's  blankets  and  giving  him  his 
maiden  drink  of  whisky  out  of  William's  First  Field 
Dressing.  With  tears  streaming  down  his  cheeks  he 
vented  his  admiration  of  the  British  national  bever- 
age. 

In  return  he  introduced  me  to  the  Italian  national 
smoke,  an  endless  cigar  to  be  sucked  up  through  a  straw. 
Between  violent  spasms  I  implored  the  name  and  ad- 
dress of  the  maker.  We  were  both  very  perfect  gentle- 
men. 

We  then  prattled  about  the  War;  he  boasting  about 
the  terrific  depths  of  snow  in  which  he  did  his  battling, 
while  I  boasted  about  the  Flanders  mud.  W^e  broke 
about  even  on  that  bout.  He  gained  a  bit  on  mountain 
batteries,  but  I  got  it  all  back,  and  more,  on  tanks.  He 
had  never  seen  one,  so  I  had  it  all  my  own  way.  Our 
tanks,  after  I  had  finished  with  them,  could  do  pretty 
nearly  anything  except  knit. 

Defeated  in  the  field,  he  turned  home  to  Rome  for 
something  to  boast  about.  I  should  see  St.  Peter's,  he 
said.  It  was  magnificent,  and  the  Eoman  art  treasures 
unsurpassable. 

I  replied  that  our  cathedral  at  Westminster  was  far 
newer,  and  that  the  art  in  our  National  Cold  Storage 
had  cost  an  average  of  £5473  19s.  l^d*  per  square  foot. 
Could  he  beat  it? 

That  knocked  him  out  of  his  stride  for  a  moment, 


120  The  Mud  Larks 

but  he  struggled  back  with  some  remark  about  seeing 
his  Coliseum  by  moonlight. 

I  replied  that  at  ours  we  had  modern  electric  light, 
Murphy  and  Mack,  Vesta  Tilley  and  the  Bioscope. 

Whether  he  would  have  recovered  from  that  I  know 
not,  for  at  this  moment  the  lights  of  the  junction 
twinkled  in  at  the  frosted  windows  and  he  took  his 
departure,  first  promising  to  call  in  at  our  Mess  and 
suffer  some  more  whisky  if  in  return  I  would  crawl  up 
his  mountain  and  meet  the  chamois  and  edelweiss. 

Later  on,  as  I  was  making  up  my  bed  for  the  night, 
Albert  Edward  poked  his  head  out  of  the  cocoon  of  horse- 
blankets  in  which  he  had  wound  himself. 

"  By  the  way,  what  ungodly  jargon  were  you  and 
that  Italian  champing  together  so  sociably  ?  " 

"German,"  I  whispered;  "but  for  the  Lord's  sake 
den't  tell  anybody." 


Antonio  Giuseppe  121 

XXI 
AKTONIO  GIUSEPPE 

OUK  squadron  is  at  the  present  moment  billeted  in 
what  the  house-agents  would  describe  as  a  "  unique 
old-world  property,"  a  ramshackle  pile  which  looks  like 
a  palace  from  the  south  and  a  workhouse  from  the  north. 

It  commenced  its  career,  back  in  the  long  ago,  as  a 
glorified  week-end  bungalow  for  Doges.  In  course  of 
time  it  became  a  monastery. 

When  the  pious  monks  took  over  they  got  busy  with 
whitewash  and  obliterated  most  of  the  Doges'  sportive 
mural  decorations.     Most,  but  not  all. 

Methinks  the  Abbot  had  tripped  the  boulevards  in 
his  youth  and  he  spared  some  of  the  brighter  spots  of  the 
more  sportive  frescoes  in  memory  of  old  times  and  to 
keep  his  heart  up  during  Lent.  Anyhow  they  are  still 
there. 

To-day  our  long-faced  chums  champ  their  feeds  in 
cloisters  where  once  the  good  monks  told  their  beads, 
and  our  bold  sergeant  boys  quaff  their  tonics  beneath 
a  painted  ceiling  whereon  Rackham  satyrs  are  depicted 
chivvying  Kirchner  n^miphs  across  a  Leader  landscape. 

A  small  portion  of  one  immense  wing  is  inhabited  by 
a  refugee  lady,  who  had  retired  in  good  order,  haling 
the  whole  menagerie  along  with  her,  calves,  fowls,  chil- 
dren, donkey,  piebald  pig  and  all. 


122  The  Mud  Larks 

When  first  we  came  into  residence  here  we  heard 
strange  nocturnal  swishings  and  shufflings  overhead, 
where  none  should  be,  and  attributed  them  to  the  ghost 
of  the  Abbot,  "who  had  returned  from  Purgatory  with  a 
bucket  of  lime  and  was  striving  to  wash  out  his  former 
lapses.  Later  on  we  discovered  it  was  the  calves,  who 
from  inscrutable  motives  of  their  own  prefer  living  in 
the  attics.  How  Mrs.  Refugee  hoisted  them  up  there  in 
the  first  place  and  how  she  proposes  to  get  them  down 
again  when  they  ripen  are  questions  she  alone  can 
answer,  but  will  never  do  so  because  we  haven't  enough 
Italian  to  ask  her. 

The  piebald  pig  is  supported  entirely  by  voluntary 
contributions,  and,  like  many  other  such  institutions, 
keeps  frequent  fasts.  When  he  retreated  here  there 
was  no  sty  to  accommodate  him ;  but  Mrs.  Refugee,  with 
the  practical  originality  that  distinguishes  her,  routed 
out  a  retired  dog-kennel  from  somewhere  and  anchored 
him  to  it.  This  has  had  the  effect  of  creating  in  him  a 
dual  personality. 

Sometimes  he  thinks  he  is  just  fat  old  Dolce  F. 
ISTiente  the  pig,  and  behaves  as  such,  and  one  can  tread 
all  over  him  without  disturbing  his  melodious  slumbers. 
At  others  the  collar  and  chain  prey  on  his  mind  and  he 
imagines  he  is  Patrias  Defensor  the  trusty  watch-dog, 
and  mows  down  all  comers. 

The  children  and  fowls  are  doing  nicely.  They 
speedily  discover  what  innumerable  fowls  and  children 
all  the  world  over  had  discovered  before  them,  namely, 
that  the  turtling  dove  is  a  wild  beast  compared  with  the 


Antonio  Giuseppe  123 

British  warrior  and  his  war-horse,  and  they  victimise 
the  defenceless  creatures  accordingly. 

The  result  is  that  the  xitkinses  get  only  what  husks 
of  their  rations  the  children  have  neglected,  and  the 
fowls  only  allow  the  hairies  what  oats  they  cannot  pos- 
sibly stagger  away  with. 

Antonio  Giuseppe  the  donkey  was  also  a  war  profiteer. 
Commerce  might  stagnate,  armies  clash  and  struggle, 
nations  bleed  to  death,  he  did  not  care.  ""  Viva  la 
guerra !  "  said  Antonio  Giuseppe.  "  As  long  as  there  is 
a  British  unit  handy  to  dine  out  with  I'm  all  for  it." 
These  sentiments,  though  deplorable,  were  not  without 
reason,  for  until  we  came  I  very  much  doubt  if  he  had 
ever  had  a  full  meal — a  real  rib-straining  blow-out — 
in  his  life. 

He  was  a  miserable  little  creature,  standing  about  a 
yard  high  by  six  inches  broad.  By  tucking  in  his  tail 
he  could  have  passed  for  a  rabbit  at  any  fancy-dress  ball. 
His  costume  was  a  patch-work  affair  of  hairy  tufts 
and  bare  spaces.  I  think  he  must  have  been  laid  away 
in  a  drawer  without  camphor  at  one  time  and  been 
mauled  by  a  moth. 

A  disreputable  ragamuffin  person  was  Antonio  Giu- 
seppe the  donkey,  but  for  all  that  he  had  a  way  with  him, 
and  was  in  his  day  the  Light-weight  Champion  Diner- 
out  of  all  Italy — probably  of  the  world. 

At  night  he  reposed  in  the  kitchen  along  with  Mrs. 
Refugee,  the  hamhini  and  fowls.  The  day  he  spent  in 
his  observation  post,  lurking  behind  a  screen  of  mul- 
berries and  vines,  keeping  a  watchful  eye  on  the  horses. 


124  The  Mud  Larks 

As  soon  as  their  nosebags  were  on  he  commenced  to 
move  stealthily  towards  the  lines,  timing  himself  to 
arrive  just  as  the  nosebags  came  off  and  the  hay-nets 
went  up.  He  then  glided  softly  between  the  horses 
and  helped  himself.  Being  tiny  and  very  discreet  he 
frequently  passed  unobserved,  but  should  the  line-guard 
spot  him  he  had  his  plan  of  action. 

Oft-times  have  I  seen  a  perspiring  and  blasphemous 
trooper  pursuing  the  winged  Antonio  Giuseppe  round 
the  lines  with  a  stable  broom ;  but  when  the  broom  de- 
scended Antonio  Giuseppe  was  not  there  to  receive  it. 
He  would  nip  under  the  breast-rope,  slip  in  under  one 
horse's  belly  and  out  between  the  legs  of  another,  dodg- 
ing through  and  round  the  astounded  animals  like  a 
half-back  through  a  loose  scrum  or  a  greased  pig  at  a 
fair,  snatching  a  generous  contribution  from  each  hay- 
net  as  he  passed.  Under  this  method  Antonio  throve 
and  throve ;  but  the  tale  of  splintered  brooms  grew  and 
grew  and  the  Quartermaster  loved  me  not. 

Yesterday  the  General  intimated  that  he'd  like  to 
inspect  us.  Always  eager  to  oblige,  we  licked,  polished, 
brushed  and  burnished  ourselves,  pipeclayed  our  head- 
ropes,  pomaded  our  moustaches,  powdered  our  noses 
and  paraded. 

"We  paraded  to-day  in  regimental  column  in  a  field 
west  of  our  palace-workhouse  and  sat  stiff  in  our  saddles, 
the  cheerful  sunshine  glowing  on  leather-work,  glinting 
on  brass  and  steel,  conscious  that  we  could  give  any 
Beauty  Chorus  a  run  for  its  money. 

There  sounded  a  shrill  fanfaronade  of  trumpets,  toot- 


Antonio  Giuseppe  125 

ling  the  salute,  and  a  dazzle  of  gold  and  scarlet  like  a 
Turner  sunset,  blazed  into  view — the  General  and  his 
Staff. 

At  the  same  moment  Antonio  Giuseppe  espied  us 
from  his  observation  post  and,  getting  it  into  his  head 
that  we  were  picnicing  out  (it  was  about  lunch-time), 
hastened  to  join  us.  As  the  General  reached  the  lead- 
ing squadron  Antonio  Giuseppe  reached  the  near  squad- 
ron and,  sliding  unobtrusively  into  its  ranks,  looked 
about  for  the  hay-nets. 

However  the  Second  in  Command  noticed  his  arrival 
and  motioned  to  his  trumpeter.  The  trumpeter  spurned 
forward  and  pinked  Antonio  Giuseppe  in  the  hindquart- 
ers with  his  sword-point  as  a  hint  to  him  to  move  on. 
Antonio,  thinking  the  line-guards  "were  upon  him  and 
with  a  new  type  of  broom,  loosed  a  squeal  of  agony  and 
straightway  commenced  his  puss-in-the-corner  antics  in 
and  out  and  round  about  the  horses'  legs.  They  didn't 
like  it  at  all;  it  tickled  and  upset  them;  they  changed 
from  the  horizontal  to  the  vertical,  giggled  and  pawed 
the  air. 

Things  were  becoming  serious.  A  hee-hawing  tatter- 
demalion donkey,  playing  "  ring  o'  roses  "  with  a  squad- 
ron of  war-horses,  tickling  them  into  hysterics,  de- 
tracts from  the  majesty  of  such  occasions  and  is  no  fit 
spectacle  for  a  General.  A  second  trumpeter  joined  in 
the  chase  and  scored  a  direct  prick  on  the  soft  of  Antonio 
Giuseppe's  nose  as  he  dived  out  under  the  tail  of  a 
plunging  gun-mare.  Antonio  whipped  about  and  fled 
towards  the  centre  squadron,  ears  wobbling,  braying  an- 


126  The  Mud  Larks 

guished  S.O.S.'s.  The  two  trumpeters,  young  and 
ardent  lads,  thundered  after  him,  swords  at  the  engage, 
racing  each  other,  knee  to  knee  for  first  blood.  They 
scored  simultaneously  on  the  butt  of  his  tail,  and  An- 
tonio, stung  to  the  quick,  shot  clean  through  (or  rather  . 
under)  the  centre  squadron  into  the  legs  of  the  General's 
horse,  tripping  up  that  majestic  animal  and  bringing 
the  whole  stately  edifice  down  into  a  particularly  muddy 
patch  of  Italy. 

Tremendous  and  awful  moment !  As  my  groom  and 
countryman  expressed  it,  "  Ye  cud  hear  the  silence  for 
miles."  The  General  did  not  break  it.  I  think  his 
mouth  was  too  full  of  mud  and  loose  teeth  for  words. 
He  arose  slowly  out  of  the  ooze  like  an  old  walrus 
lifting  through  a  bed  of  seaweed  black  as  death,  slime 
dripping  from  his  whiskers,  and  limped  grimly  from 
the  field,  followed  by  his  pallid  staff  proffering  hand- 
kerchiefs and  smelling-salts.  But  I  understand  he  be- 
came distinctly  articulate  when  he  got  home,  and  the 
upshot  of  it  is  that  we  are  to  be  put  in  the  forefront  of 
the  nastiest  battle  that  can  be  arranged  for  us. 

And  Antonio  Giuseppe  the  donkey,  author  of  all  the 
trouble,  what  of  him?  you  ask. 

Antonio  Giuseppe  the  donkey  will  never  smile  again, 
dear  reader.  With  his  edges  trimmed  and  "  Welcome  " 
branded  across  his  back  he  may  serve  as  a  mangy  door- 
mat for  some  suburban  maisonette,  but  at  the  present 
moment  he  lies  in  the  mud  of  the  parade-ground,  as 
flat  as  a  sole  on  a  sand-bank,  waiting  for  someone  to 
roll  him  up  and  carry  him  away. 

Wben  a  full-fed  Major-General  falls  he  falls  heavily. 


"I  Spy"  127 

XXII 

"I  SPY" 

I  PUT  my  head  into  the  Mess  and  discovered  Albert 
Edward  alone  there  cheatins;  himself  at  Patience. 

"  My  leave  warrant  has  come  and  I'm  ofiP !  "  said  I. 
"  If  Foch  should  ring  np  tell  him  he'll  have  to  struggle 
along  by  himself  for  a  fortnight.    Cheeroh  !  " 

"  Cheeroh !  "  said  Albert  Edward.  "  Give  my  re- 
gards to  i^ero,  Borgia  and  all  the  boys." 

I  shut  the  door  upon  him  and  took  the  road  to  Kome. 

Arrived  there  I  attempted  to  shed  a  card  on  the  Pope, 
but  was  repulsed  by  a  halbardier  in  fancy  dress;  visited 
the  catacombs  (by  the  way,  in  the  art  of  catacombing 
we  latter-day  sinners  have  nothing  to  learn  from  the 

early  saints.    Why,  at  Arras  in  1917  we Oh,  well, 

never  mind  now!);  kept  a  solemn  face  while  bands 
solemnly  intoned  Tipperary  (under  the  impression  it 
was  the  British  National  Anthem)  ;  bought  a  bushel  of 
mosaic  brooches  and  several  million  picture  postcards 
and  acted  the  perfect  little  tripper  throughout. 

Then  one  day  while  stepping  into  a  hotel  lift  I 
bumped  full  into  Wilfrid  Wilcox  Wilbur,  stepping 
forth. 

You  have  all  of  you  read  the  works  of  Wilfrid  Wilcox 
Wilbur  (Passion  Flowers,  Purple  Patches,  etc.  Boost 
and  Boom.  6s.)  ;  if  you  haven't  you  should,  for  Wilfrid 


128  The  Mud  Larks 

is  the  lad  to  handle  the  soul-sob  and  the  heart-throb  and 
warm,  up  cold  print  generally. 

In  pre-war  days  he  was  to  be  met  with  in  London 
drawing-rooms  about  tea-time  wearing  his  mane  rather 
longer  than  is  done  in  the  best  menageries,  giving  a  very 
realistic  imitation  of  a  lap-dog.  And  now  behold  him 
in  military  disguise  parading  the  Eternal  City ! 

"  What  are  you  doing  here  ?  "  I  gasped. 

He  put  a  finger  to  his  lips.  "  Psst !  "  Then  pushing 
me  into  the  lift,  he  ejected  the  attendant,  turned  a 
handle  and  we  shot  aloft.  Half-way  between  heaven  and 
earth  he  stopped  the  conveyance  and  having  made 
quite  sure  we  were  not  being  overheard  by  either  men 
or  angels,  leaned  up  against  my  ear  and  whispered, 
"  Secret  Service !  " 

I  was  amazed.    "  !N'ot  really !  " 

Wilbur  nodded.  "Yes,  really!  That's  why  I  have 
to  be  so  careful;  they  have  their  agents  everywhere 
listening,  watching,  taking  notes." 

I  felt  for  my  pocket-case  momentarily  fearful  that 
They  (whoever  They  were)  might  have  taken  mine. 

"  And  do  you  have  agents  also,  listening,  noting,  tak- 
ing watches  ?  "  I  asked. 

Wilbur  said  he  had  and  went  on  to  explain  that  so 
perfect  was  his  system  that  a  cat  could  hardly  kitten 
anywhere  between  the  Yildiz  Kiosk  and  Wilhelmstrasse 
without  his  full  knowledge  and  approval.  I  was  very 
thrilled,  for  I  had  previously  imagined  all  the  cloak 
and  dagger  spy  business  to  be  an  invention  of  the  maga- 
zine writer,  yet  here  was  little  Wilbur,  according  to 


"I  Spy"  129 

himself,  living  a  life  of  continuous  yellow  drama,  more 
Queuxrious  than  fiction,  rich  beyond  dreams  of  Gara- 
vice.    (Publisher — "Tut-tut!"   Author — "Peccavi!") 

I  thrilled  and  thrilled.  "  Look  here,"  I  implored, 
"  if  you  are  going  to  pull  off  a  coup  at  any  time,  do 
let  me  come  too !  " 

Wilbur  demurred,  the  profession  wasn't  keen  on 
amateurs,  he  explained;  they  were  too  impetuous,  lacked 
subtlety — still  if  the  opportunity  occurred   he   might 

— perhaps I  wrung  his  hand,  then,  seeing  that  bells 

on  every  landing  had  been  in  a  state  of  uproar  for 
some  fifteen  minutes  and  that  the  attendant  was  com- 
mencing to  swarm  the  cable  after  his  lift,  we  dropped 
back  to  earth  again,  returned  it  to  him  and  went  out 
to  lunch. 

"  And  now  tell  me  something  of  your  methods,"  said 
I,  as  we  sat  down  to  meat. 

Wilbur  promptly  grabbed  me  by  the  collar  and 
dragged  me  after  him  under  the  table. 

"  What's  the  matter  now?  "  I  gulped. 

"  Fool !  "  he  hissed.  "  The  waiter  is  a  Bulgarian 
spy." 

"  Let's  arrest  him  then,"  said  L 

Wilbur  groaned.  "  Oh,  you  amateurs,  you  would 
stampede  everything  and  ruin  all !  " 

I  apologised  meekly  and  we  issued  from  cover  again 
and  resumed  our  meal,  silently  because  (according  to 
Wilbur)  the  peroxide  blonde  doing  snake-charming 
tricks  with  spaghetti  at  the  next  table  was  a  Hungarian 


130  The  Mud  Larks 

agent,  and  there  was  a  Turk  concealed  in  the  pottad 
pahns  near  bj. 

I  thrilled  and  thrilled  and  thrilled. 

Then  followed  stirring  days.  Eome  at  that  time,  I 
gathered,  was  the  centre  of  the  spy  industry  and  at  the 
height  of  the  sleuthing  season,  for  they  hemmed  us  in 
on  every  hand — according  to  Wilbur.  I  was  continually 
being  dragged  aside  into  the  shadow  of  dark  arcades  to 
dodge  Austrian  Admirals  disguised  as  dustmen,  rushed 
up  black  alleys  to  escape  the  machinations  of  Bolshevick 
adventuresses  parading  as  parish  priests,  and  submerged 
in  fountains  to  avoid  the  evil  eyes  of  German  diplomats 
camouflaged  as  flower  girls — according  to  Wilbur. 

I  thrilled  and  thrilled  and  thrilled  and  thrilled, 
bought  myself  a  stiletto  and  a  false  nose. 

However,  after  about  a  week  of  playing  trusty  Watson 
to  Wilbur's  Sherlock  without  having  effected  a  single 
arrest,  drugged  one  courier,  stilettoed  a  soul,  or  being 
allowed  to  wear  my  false  nose  once,  my  thrillings  became 
less  violent,  and  giving  Wilbur  the  slip  one  afternoon, 
I  went  on  the  prowl  alone.  About  four  of  the  clock 
my  investigations  took  me  to  Latour's.  At  a  small  mar- 
ble table  lapping  up  ices  as  a  kitten  laps  cream,  I  be- 
held Temporary  Second  Lieut.  Mervyn  Esmond. 

You  all  of  you  remember  Mervyn  Esmond,  he  of  the 
spats,  the  eyeglass  and  gTey  top-hat,  the  Super-Knut 
of  the  Frivolity  Theatre  who  used  to  gambol  so  grace- 
fully before  the  many  "  twinkling  toes  "  of  the  Super- 
Beauty  Chorus,  singing  "  Billy  of  Piccadilly."  You 
must  remember  Mervyn  Esmond ! 


"  I  Spy  " 13^ 

But  that  was  the  Esmond  of  yore,  for  a  long  time 
past  he  has  been  doing  sterling  work  in  command  of 
an  Army  Pierrot  troupe. 

I  sat  down  beside  him,  stole  his  ice  and  finished  it 
for  him. 

"  And  now  what  are  you  doing  here  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Fve  come  down  from  the  line  to  get  some  new 
dresses  for  Queenie,"  he  replied.  "  She — he,  that  is — 
is  absolutely  in  rags,  bursts  a  pair  of  corsets  and  a  pair 
of  silk  stockings  every  performance,  very  expensive 
item." 

I  had  better  explain  here  and  now  that  Queenie  is 
the  leading  lady  in  Mervyn's  troupe.  She — he,  that 
is — started  her — his — military  career  as  an  artillery 
driver,  but  was  discovered  to  be  the  possessor  of  a  very 
shrill  falsetto  voice  and  dedicated  to  female  impersona- 
tions forthwith. 

"  She — he — is  round  at  the  dressmaker's  now," 
Mervyn  went  on,  "  wrestling  with  half  a  dozen  hyster- 
ical mannequins.  Fm  getting  her — him,  I  should  say 
— up  regardless.  Listen.  Dainty  ninon  georgette  out- 
lined with  chenile  stitching.  Charmeuse  overtunic,  em- 
broidered with  musquash  and  skunk  pom-poms.  Crepe 
de  Chine  undies  interwoven  with  blue  baby  ribbon, 
camis " 

"  Stop !  "  I  thundered.  "  Do  you  want  me  to  blush 
myself  to  death  ?    I  am  but  a  rough  soldier." 

Mervyn  apologised,  wrapped  himself  round  another 
ice  and  asked  me  how  I  was  amusing  myself  in  Tiber- 
town. 


132  The  Mud  Larks 

Having  first  ascertained  that  there  were  no  enemy 
agents  secreted  under  the  table  or  among  the  potted 
palms,  I  unburdened  my  soul  to  him  concerning  Wilbur 
and  the  coups  that  never  came  off. 

He  stared  at  me  for  a  few  moments,  his  eyes  twink- 
ling, then  he  leaned  over  the  table. 

"  My  active  brain  has  evolved  a  be-autiful  plan," 
said  he.    "  It's  yours  for  another  ice." 

I  bought  it. 

I  found  Wilbur  sleuthing  the  crowd  from  behind  a 
tall  tumbler  in  the  Excelsior  lounge,  and  dragging  him 
into  the  lift,  hung  it  up  half-way  between  here  and  here- 
after, and  whispered  my  great  news. 

"  Where,  when  ?  "  he  cried,  blench-blanching. 

"  In  my  hotel  at  midnight,"  I  replied.  "  I  hid  in  a 
clothes-basket  and  heard  all.  We  will  frustrate  their 
knavish  tricks,  thou  and  I." 

Wilbur  did  not  appear  to  be  as  keen  as  I  had  expected, 
he  hummed  and  hawed  and  chatted  about  my  amateur- 
ishness and  impetuosity ;  but  I  was  obdurate,  and  taking 
him  firmly  by  the  arm  led  him  off  to  dinner. 

I  hardly  let  go  of  his  arm  at  all  for  the  next  five 
hours,  judging  it  safer  so. 

Five  minutes  before  midnight  I  led  him  up  the  stairs 
of  my  hotel  and  tip-toeing  into  a  certain  room,  clicked 
on  the  light. 

"  See  that  door  over  there  ? "  I  whispered,  pointing, 
"  'tis  the  bathroom.  Hide  there.  I  shall  be  concealed 
in  the  wardrobe.    In  five  minutes  the  conspirators  will 


"I  Spy" ^ 

appear.  The  moment  you  hear  me  shout,  '  Hands  up, 
Otto  von  Schweinhund,  le  jeu  est  fait/  or  words  to  that 
effect — burst  out  of  the  bathroom  and  collar  the 
lady." 

I  pushed  Wilbur  into  the  bathroom  (he  was  trembling 
slightly,  excitement  no  doubt)  and  closed  the  door. 

I  had  no  sooner  shut  myself  into  the  wardrobe  when 
a  man  and  a  woman  entered  the  room.  They  were  both 
in  full  evening  dress,  the  man  was  a  handsome  rascal, 
the  woman  a  tall,  languid  beauty,  gorgeously  dressed. 
She  flung  herself  down  in  a  chair  and  lit  a  cigarette. 
The  man  carefully  locked  the  door  and  crossed  the  room 
towards  her. 

"  Hansa,"  he  hissed,  "  did  you  get  the  plans  of  the 
fortress  ?  " 

She  laughed  and  taking  a  packet  of  papers  from  the 
bosom  of  her  dress,  flung  it  on  the  table. 

"  '  Twas  easy,  mon  cher." 

He  caught  it  and  held  it  aloft. 

"Victory!"  he  cried.     "The  Vaterland  is  saved!" 

He  passed  round  the  table  and  stood  before  her,  his 
eyes  glittering. 

"  You  beautiful  devil,"  he  muttered,  through  clenched 
teeth.  "  I  knew  you  could  do  it.  I  knew  you  would 
bewitch  the  young  attache.  All  men  are  puppets  in 
your  hands,  beautiful,  beautiful  fiend !  " 

The  moment  had  come.  Hastily  donning  my  false 
nose,  I  flung  open  the  wardrobe,  shouted  the  signal  and 
covered  the  pair  with  my  stiletto.  The  woman  screamed 
and  flung  herself  into  the  arms  of  her  accomplice. 


134  The  Mud  Larks 

"Ah,  ha,  foiled  again!  Curse  you!"  He  snarled 
and  covered  me  with  the  plans  of  tlie  fortress. 

I  grappled  with  him,  he  grappled  with  me,  the 
beautiful  devil  grappled  with  both  of  us;  we  all  grap- 
pled. 

There  was  no  movement  from  the  bathroom  door. 

We  grappled  some  more,  we  grappled  all  over  the 
table,  over  the  washstand  and  a  brace  of  chairs.  The 
villain  lost  his  whiskers,  the  villainess  lost  her  lovely 
golden  wig,  the  hero  (me)  lost  his  false  nose.  I  shouted 
the  signal  once  more,  the  villain  shouted  it,  the  villainess 
shouted  it,  we  all  shouted  it. 

There  was  no  movement  from  the  bathroom  door. 

We  grappled  some  more,  we  grappled  over  the  chest 
of  drawers,  under  the  carpet  and  in  and  out  of  the  towel- 
horse. 

A  muffled  report  rang  out  from  somewhere  about  the 
beautiful  devil. 

"  For  God's  sake,  go  easy !  "  she  wheezed  in  my  left 
ear.    "  My  corsets  have  went !  " 

Then,  as  there  was  still  no  movement  from  the  bath- 
room door,  and  we  none  of  us  had  a  grapple  left  in  us, 
we  called  "  time." 

Mervyn  sat  up  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  sourly  regarding 
the  bedraggled  Queenie. 

"  In  rags  once  more,  twenty  pounds'  worth  of  geor- 
gette, charmeuse  and  ninon  whatisname  torn  to  shreds !  " 
he  groaned.    "  Oh,  you  tom-boy,  you !  " 

"  Come  and  dig  these  damn  whalebones  out  of  my 
ribs,"  said  she. 


"  I  Spy  " 135 

I  staggered  across  the  room  and  opening  the  bath- 
room door,  peered  within. 

"  Any  sign  of  our  friend  Sherlock,  the  spy-hound  ?  " 
Mervyn  enquired. 

"  Yes,"  said  I.  "  He's  tumbled  in  a  dead  faint  into 
the  bath ! " 


136  The  Mud  Larks 

XXIII 
A  FAUX  PAS 

W HEIST  we  have  finished  slaying  for  the  day,  have 
stropped  our  gory  sabres,  hung  our  horses  up  to 
dry  and  are  sitting  about  after  mess,  girths  slackened 
and  pipes  aglow,  it  is  a  favourite  pastime  of  ours  to 
discuss  what  we  are  going  to  do  after  the  War. 

William,  our  mess  president  and  transport  officer, 
says  frankly,  "  Nothing."  Three  years'  continuous 
struggle  to  keep  the  mess  going  in  whiskey  and  soda  and 
the  officers'  kit  down  to  two  hundred  and  fifty  pounds 
per  officer  has  made  an  old  man  of  him,  once  so  full  of 
bright  quips  and  conundrums.  The  moment  Hinden- 
burg  chucks  up  the  sponge  off  goes  William  to  Chelsea 
Hospital,  there  to  spend  the  autumn  of  his  days  pitching 
the  yarn  and  displaying  his  honourable  scars  gained  in 
many  a  bloody  battle  in  the  mule  lines. 

So  much  for  William.  The  Skipper,  who  is  as 
sensitive  to  climate  as  a  lily  of  the  hot-house,  prattles 
lovingly  during  the  summer  months  of  selling  ice-creams 
to  the  Eskimos,  and  during  the  winter  months  of  ped- 
dling roast  chestnuts  in  Timbuctoo.  MacTavish  and  the 
Babe  propose,  under  the  euphonious  noms  de  commerce 
of  Vavaseur  and  Montmorency,  to  open  pawn-shops 
among  ex-munition-workers,  and  thereby  accumulate  old 
masters,  grand  pianos  and  diamond  tiaras  to  export  to 


J 


A  Faux  Pas  137 

the  United  States.     For  myself  I  have  another  plan. 

There  is  a  certain  historic  wood  np  north  through 
Avhich  bullets  whine,  shells  rumble  and  no  bird  sings. 
After  the  War  I  am  going  to  float  a  company,  purchase 
that  wood  and  turn  it  into  a  pleasure-resort  for  the  ac- 
commodation of  tourists. 

There  will  be  an  entrance  fee  of  ten  francs,  and  every- 
thing else  will  be  extra. 

Tea  in  the  dug-out — ten  francs.  Trips  through 
trenches,  accompanied  by  trained  guides  reciting 
selected  passages  from  the  outpourings  of  our  special 
correspondents — ^ten  francs.  At  night  j^vand  S.O.S. 
rocket  and  Very  light  display — ten  francs.  While  for 
a  further  twenty  francs  the  tourist  will  be  allowed  to 
pick  up  as  many  souvenirs  in  the  way  of  rolls  of  barbed 
wire,  dud  bombs  and  blind  crumps  as  he  can  stagger 
away  with.  By  this  means  the  country  will  be  cleared 
of  its  explosive  matter  and  I  shall  be  able  to  spend  my 
declining  years  in  Park  Lane,  or,  anyway,  Tooting. 

Our  Albert  Edward  has  not  been  making  any  plans 
as  to  his  future  lately,  but  just  now  it  looks  very  much 
as  if  his  future  will  be  spent  in  gaol.  It  happened  this 
way.  He  had  been  up  forward  doing  some  0.  Pipping. 
While  he  was  there  he  made  friends  with  a  battery  and 
persuaded  the  poor  fools  into  doing  some  shooting  under 
his  direction.  He  says  it  is  great  fun  sitting  up  in  your 
O.  Pip,  a  pipe  in  your  teeth,  a  telescope  clapped  to 
your  blind  eye,  removing  any  parts  of  the  landscape 
that  you  take  a  dislike  to. 

"I  don't  care  for  that  tree  at  A  29.b.5.8","  you  say 


138  The  Mud  Larks 

to  the  telephone.  "  It's  altogether  too  crooked  (or  too 
straight).  Off  with  its  head!"  and,  hey  presto!  the 
offending  herb  is  not.  Or,  "  That  hill  at  C  39.d.7.4" 
is  quite  absurd ;  it's  ridiculously  lop-sided.  I  think  we'll 
have  a  valley  there  instead."  And  lo!  the  absurd  ex- 
crescence goes  west  in  a  puff  of  smoke. 

Our  Albert  Edward  spent  a  most  enjoyable  week 
altering  the  geography  of  Europe  to  suit  his  taste.  Then 
one  morning  he  made  a  trifling  error  of  about  thirty 
degrees  and  some  few  thousand  yards  and  removed  the 
wrong  village. 

"  One  village  looks  very  much  like  another,  and 
what  are  a  few  thousand  yards  this  way  or  that  in  a  war 
of  world-wide  dimensions?  Gentlemen,  let  us  not  be 
trivial,"  said  our  Albert  Edward  to  the  red-hatted 
people  who  came  weeping  to  his  O.  Pip.  ]N^evertheless 
some  unpleasantness  resulted,  and  our  Albert  Edward 
came  home  to  shelter  in  the  bosom  of  us,  his  family. 

The  unpleasantness  spread,  for  twenty-four  hours 
later  came  a  chit  for  our  Albert  Edward,  saying  if  he 
had  nothing  better  to  do  would  he  drop  in  and  swop 
yarns  with  the  General  at  noon  that  day  ?  Our  Albert 
Edward  made  his  will,  pulled  on  his  parade  boots,  drank 
half  a  bottle  of  brandy  neat,  kissed  us  farewell  and 
rode  off  to  his  doom.  As  he  passed  the  borders  of  the 
camp  The  O'Murphy  uncorked  himself  from  a  drain, 
and,  seeing  his  boon-companion  faring  forth  a-horse, 
abandoned  the  ratstrafe  and  trotted  after  him. 

A  word  or  two  explaining  The  O'Murphy.  Two  years 
ago  we  were  camped  at  one  end  of  a  certain  damp  dark 


A  Faux  Pas  139 

gully  up  north.  Thither  came  a  party  of  big  marines 
and  a  small  Irish  terrier,  bringing  with  them  a  long 
naval  gun,  which  they  covered  with  a  camouflage  of 
sackcloth  and  ashes  and  let  off  at  intervals.  Whenever 
the  long  gun  was  about  to  fire  the  small  dog  went  mad, 
bounced  about  behind  the  gun-trail  like  an  indiarubber 
ball,  in  an  ecstasy  of  expectation.  When  the  great  gun 
boomed  he  shrieked  with  joy  and  shot  away  up  the  gully 
looking  for  the  rabbit.  The  poor  little  dog's  hunt  up 
and  down  the  gully  for  the  rabbit  that  never  had  been 
was  one  of  the  most  pathetic  sights  I  ever  saw.  That 
so  many  big  men  wdth  such  an  enormous  gun  should 
miss  the  rabbit  every  time  was  gradually  killing  him 
with  disgust  and  exasperation. 

Meeting  my  groom  one  evening  I  spoke  of  the  matter 
to  him,  casually  mentioning  that  there  was  a  sma^l 
countryman  of  ours  close  at  hand  breaking  his  liea.  fc 
because  there  never  was  any  rabbit.  I  clearly  explained 
to  my  groom  that  I  was  suggesting  nothing,  dropping 
no  hints,  but  I  thought  it  a  pity  such  a  sportsmar  ■''lould 
waste  his  talents  with  those  sea-soldiers  wh 
were  outfits  like  ours  about,  offering  all  kinds  of  v.^^.^  .. 
tunities  to  one  of  the  right  sort.  I  again  repeated  that 
I  was  making  no  suggestions  and  passed  on  to  some  other 
subject. 

Imagine  my  astonishment  when,  on  making  our 
customary  bi-weekly  trek  next  day,  I  discovered  the 
small  terrier  secured  to  our  tool-limber  by  a  piece  of 
baling-wire,  evidently  enjoying  the  trip  and  abusing  the 
limber-mules  as  if  he  had  known  them  all  his  life.    Since 


140  The  Mud  Larks 

he  had  insisted  on  coming  with  us  there  was  nothing 
further  to  be  said,  so  we  christened  him  "  The  O'- 
Murphy,"  attached  him  to  the  strength  for  rations  and 
discipline,  and  for  two  years  he  has  shared  our  joys 
and  sorrows,  our  billets  and  bully-beef,  up  and  down 
the  land  of  Somewheres. 

But  it  was  with  our  Albert  Edward  he  got  particularly 
chummy.  They  had  the  same  dislike  of  felines  and  the 
same  taste  in  biscuits.  Thus  when  Albert  Edward  rode 
by,  ears  drooping,  tail  tucked  in  (so  to  speak),  en  route 
to  the  shambles.  The  O'Murphy  saw  clearly  that  here 
was  the  time  to  prove  his  friendship,  and  trotted  along 
behind.  On  arriving  at  H.Q.  the  comrades  shook  paws 
and  licked  each  other  good-bye.  Then  Albert  Edward 
stumbled  within  and  The  O'Murphy  hung  about  outside 
saucing  the  brass-collared  Staff  dogs  and  waiting  to 
gather  up  what  fragments  remained  of  his  chum's  body 
after  the  General  had  done  with  it.  His  interview  with 
the  General  our  Albert  Edward  prefers  not  to  describe; 
it  was  too  painful,  too  humiliating,  he  says.  That  a  man 
of  the  General's  high  position,  advanced  age  and  vener- 
able appearance  could  lose  his  self-control  to  such  a 
degree  was  a  terrible  revelation  to  Albert  Edward.  "  Let 
us  draw  a  veil  over  that  episode,"  he  said. 

But  what  happened  later  on  he  did  consent  to  tell  us. 
When  the  General  had  burst  all  his  blood  vessels,  and 
Albert  Edward  was  congratulating  himself  that  the 
worst  was  over,  the  old  man  suddenly  grabbed  a  Manual 
of  Military  Law  off  his  desk,  hurled  it  into  a  corner 
and  dived  under  a  table,  whence  issued  scuffling  sounds, 


A  Faux  Pas  141 

grunts  and  squeals.  "  See  that  ?  "  came  the  voice  of 
the  General  from  under  the  table.  '"'  Of  all  confounded 
impudence ! — did  you  see  that  ?  " 

Albert  Edward  made  noises  in  the  negative.  "A 
rat,  by  golly !  "  boomed  the  venerable  warrior,  "  big  as 
a  calf,  came  out  of  his  hole  and  stood  staring  at  me. 
Damn  his  impudence  I  I  cut  off  his  retreat  with  the 
manual  and  he's  somewhere  about  here  now.  Flank 
him,  will  you  ?  " 

As  Albert  Edward  moved  to  a  flank  there  came  sounds 
of  another  violent  scuffle  under  the  table,  followed  by 
a  glad  whoop  from  the  General,  who  emerged  rumpled 
but  triumphant. 

"  Up-ended  the  waste-paper  basket  on  him,"  he 
panted,  dusting  his  knees  with  a  handkerchief.  "  And 
now,  me  lad,  what  now,  eh  ?  " 

"  Fetch  a  dog,  sir,"  answered  Albert  Edward,  mind- 
ful of  his  friend  The  O'Murphy.  The  General  sneered, 
"  Dog  be  blowed !  What's  the  matter  with  the  old- 
fashioned  cat  ?  I've  got  a  plain  tabby  with  me  that  has 
written  standard  works  on  ratting."  He  lifted  up  his 
voice  and  bawled  to  his  orderly  to  bring  one  Pussums. 
"  Had  the  old  tabby  for  years,  me  lad,"  he  continued ; 
"  brought  it  from  home — carry  it  round  with  me  every- 
where ;  and  I  don't  have  any  rat  troubles.     Orderly ! 

"  Eellers  come  out  here  with  St.  Bernard  dogs,  shot- 
guns, poison,  bear-traps  and  fishing-nets  and  never  get 
a  wank  of  sleep  for  the  rats,  while  one  common  cat  like 
my  old  Pussums  would Oh,  where  is  that  con- 
founded feller  ? " 


142  The  Mud  Larks 

He  strode  to  the  door  and  flung  it  open,  admitting, 
not  an  orderly  but  The  O'Murphy,  who  nodded  pleas- 
antly to  him  and  trotted  across  the  room,  tail  twinkling, 
love-light  shining  in  his  eyes,  and  deposited  at  Albert 
Edward's  feet  his  offering,  a  large  dead  tabby  cat. 

Albert  Edward  remembers  no  more.    He  had  swooned. 


Mon  Repos  143 

XXIV 
MON  EEPOS 

ALBERT  EDWARD  and  I  are  on  detachment  just 
■^  now.  I  can't  mention  what  job  we  are  on  because 
Hindenburg  is  listening.  He  watches  every  move  made 
by  Albert  Edward  and  me  and  disposes  his  forces  ac- 
cordingly. jSTow  and  again  he  forestalls  us,  now  and 
again  he  don't.  On  the  former  occasions  he  rings  up 
Ludendorff,  and  they  make  a  night  of  it  with  beer  and 
song;  on  the  latter  he  pushes  the  bell  violently  for  the 
old  German  God. 

The  spot  Albert  Edward  and  I  inhabit  just  now  is 
very  interesting;  things  happen  all  round  us.  There 
is  a  tame  balloon  tied  by  a  string  to  the  back  garden, 
an  ammunition  column  on  either  flank  and  an  infantry 
battalion  camped  in  front.  Aeroplanes  buzz  overhead 
in  flocks  and  there  is  a  regular  tank  service  past  the 
door.  One  way  and  another  our  present  location  fairly 
teems  with  life ;  Albert  Edward  says  it  reminds  him  of 
London.  To  heighten  the  similarity  we  get  bombed 
every  night. 

Promptly  after  Mess  the  song  of  the  bomb-bird  is 
heard.  The  searchlights  stab  and  slash  about  the  sky 
like  tin  swords  in  a  stage  duel ;  presently  they  pick  up 
the  bomb-bird — a  glittering  flake  of  tinsel — and  the 
racket  begins.     Archibalds  pop,  machine  guns  chatter, 


144  The  Mud  Larks 

rifles  crack,  and  here  and  there  some  optimistic  sports- 
man browns  the  Milky  Way  with  a  revolver.  As  Sir  I. 
Newton's  law  of  gravity  is  still  in  force  and  all  that 
goes  up  must  come  down  again,  it  is  advisable  to  wear 
a  parasol  on  one's  walks  abroad. 

In  view  of  the  heavy  lead-fall  Albert  Edward  and  I 
decided  to  have  a  dug-out.  We  dug  down  six  inches 
and  struck  water  in  massed  formation.  I  poked  a  finger 
into  the  water  and  licked  it.  "  Tastes  odd,"  said  I, 
"  brackish  or  salt  or  something." 

"  We've  uncorked  the  blooming  Atlantic,  that's 
what,"  said  Albert  Edward ;  "  cork  it  up  again  quickly 
or  it'll  bob  up  and  swamp  us."  That  done,  we  looked 
about  for  something  that  would  stand  digging  into.  The 
only  thing  we  could  find  was  a  molehill,  so  we  delved  our 
way  into  that.  We  are  residing  in  it  now,  Albert  Ed- 
ward, Maurice  and  I.  We  have  called  it  "  Mon  Repos/* 
and  stuck  up  a  notice  saying  we  are  inside,  otherwise 
visitors  would  walk  over  it  and  miss  us. 

The  chief  drawback  to  "  Mon  Repos  "  is  Maurice. 
Maurice  is  the  proprietor  by  priority,  a  mole  by  nature. 
Our  advent  has  more  or  less  driven  him  into  the  hinter- 
land of  his  home  and  he  is  most  unpleasant  about  it. 
He  sits  in  the  basement  and  sulks  by  day,  issuing  at 
night  to  scrabble  about  among  our  boots,  falling  over 
things  and  keeping  us  awake.  If  we  say  "  Boo !  Shoo !  " 
or  any  harsh  word  to  him  he  doubles  up  the  backstairs 
to  the  attic  and  kicks  earth  over  our  faces  at  three- 
minute  intervals  all  night. 

Albert  Edward  says  he  is  annoyed  about  the  rent, 


Mon  Repos  145 

but  I  call  that  absurd.  Maurice  is  perfectly  aware  that 
there  is  a  war  on,  and  to  demand  rent  from  soldiers 
who  are  defending  his  molehill  with  their  lives  is  the 
most  ridiculous  proposition  I  ever  heard  of.  As  I  said 
before,  the  situation  is  most  unpleasant,  but  I  don't  see 
what  we  can  do  about  it,  for  digging  out  Maurice  means 
digging  down  "  Mon  Repos/'  and  there's  no  sense  in 
that.  Albert  Edward  had  a  theory  that  the  mole  is  a 
carnivorous  animal,  so  he  smeared  a  worm  with  car- 
bolic tooth-paste  and  left  it  lying  about.  It  lay  about 
for  days.  Albert  now  admits  his  theory  was  wrong; 
the  mole  is  a  vegetarian,  he  says;  he  was  confusing  it 
with  trout.  He  is  in  the  throes  of  inventing  an  ex- 
plosive potato  for  Maurice  on  the  lines  of  a  percussion 
grenade,  but  in  the  meanwhile  that  gentleman  remains 
in  complete  mastery  of  the  situation. 

The  balloon  attached  to  our  back  garden  is  very  tame. 
Every  morning  its  keepers  lead  it  forth  from  its  abode 
by  strings,  tie  it  to  a  longer  string  and  let  it  go.  All 
day  it  remains  aloft,  tugging  gently  at  its  leash  and 
keeping  an  eye  on  the  War.  In  the  evening  the  keepers 
appear  once  more,  haul  it  down  and  lead  it  home  for 
the  night.  It  reminds  me  for  all  the  world  of  a  huge 
docile  elephant  being  bossed  about  by  the  mahout's 
infant  family.  I  always  feel  like  giving  the  gentle 
creature  a  bun. 

Xow  and  again  the  Boche  birds  come  over  disguised 
as  clouds  and  spit  mouthfuls  of  red-hot  tracer-bullets 
at  it,  and  then  the  observers  hop  out.  One  of  them 
"  hopped  out  "  into  my  horse  lines  last  week.    That  is  to 


146  The  Mud  Larks 

saj  his  parachute  caught  in  a  tree  and  he  hung  swing- 
ing, like  a  giant  pendulum,  over  my  horses'  backs  until 
we  lifted  him  down.  He  came  into  "  Mon  Repos  "  to 
have  bits  of  tree  picked  out  of  him.  This  was  the  sixth 
plunge  overboard  he  had  done  in  ten  days,  he  told  us. 
Sometimes  he  plunged  into  the  most  embarrassing  situa- 
tions. On  one  occasion  he  dropped  clean  through  a 
bivouac  roof  into  a  hot  bath  containing  a  Lieutenant- 
Colonel,  who  punched  him  with  a  sponge  and  threw  soap 
at  him.  On  another  he  came  fluttering  down  from  the 
blue  into  the  midst  of  a  labour  company  of  Chinese 
coolies,  who  immediately  fell  on  their  faces,  worshipping 
him  as  some  heavenly  being,  and  later  cut  off  all  his 
buttons  as  holy  relics.    An  eventful  life. 


"  Fly,  Gentle  Dove  "  147 

XXV 
"FLY,  GENTLE  DOVE" 

WE  were  told  off  for  a  job  of  work  over  the  bags  not 
long  ago.  The  Staff  sent  us  some  pigeons  with 
their  love,  and  expressed  the  hope  that  we'd  drop  them 
a  line  from  time  to  time  and  let  them  know  how  the 
battle  was  raging,  and  where.  (The  Staff  live  in  con- 
stant terror  that  one  day  the  War  will  walk  completely 
away  from  them  and  some  unruly  platoon  bomb  its  way 
up  Unter  den  Linden  without  their  knowing  a  thing 
about  it.) 

'Next  morning  we  duly  pushed  off,  and  in  the  course 
of  time  found  ourselves  deep  in  Bocheland  holding  a 
sketchy  line  of  outposts  and  waiting  for  the  Hun  to  do 
the  sporting  thing  and  counter.  More  time  passed,  and 
as  the  Hun  showed  no  signs  of  getting  a  move  on  we 
began  to  look  about  us  and  take  stock. 

Personally  I  felt  that  a  square  meal  might  do  some- 
thing towards  curing  a  hollow  feeling  that  was  gnawing 
me  beneath  the  belt.  As  I  was  rummaging  through  my 
haversack  the  pigeon-carrier  approached  and  asked  for 
the  book  of  rules. 

ISTow  to  the  iminitiated,  I  have  no  doubt,  pigeon-fly- 
ing sounds  the  easiest  game  in  the  world.  You  just  take 
a  picture-postcard,  mark  the  spot  you  are  on  with  a  cross, 
add  a  few  words,  such  as,  "  Hoping  this  finds  you  in  the 


148  The  Mud  Larks 

pink,  as  it  leaves  me  at  present — I  don't  think,"  insert  it 
in  the  faithful  fowl's  beak,  say,  "  Home,  John,"  and  in 
a  few  minutes  it  is  rattling  into  the  General's  letter-box. 
This  is  by  no  means  the  case.  Pigeons  are  the  kittlest 
of  cattle.  If  you  don't  treat  them  just  so  they  will 
either  chuck  up  the  game  on  the  spot  or  hand  your  note 
to  Hindenburg.  To  avoid  this  a  book  of  the  rules  is 
issued  to  pigeon-carriers,  giving  instructions  as  to  when 
and  how  the  creatures  should  be  fed,  watered,  exercised, 
etc. 

On  this  occasion  I  felt  through  my  pockets  for  the 
book  of  the  rules  and  drew  blank.  "  What's  the  matter 
with  the  bird,  anyhow  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Looks  a  bit  dahn-'earted,"  said  the  carrier ;  "  de- 
jected-like, as  you  might  say." 

"  Seeing  you've  been  carrying  it  upside  dovm  for  the 
last  twenty-four  hours  it  isn't  to  be  wondered  at,"  said 
my  Troop  Sergeant ;  "  blood's  run  to  its  head,  that's 
what." 

"  Turn  it  the  other  way  up  for  a  bit  and  run  the  blood 
back  again,"  I  suggested. 

"  Exercise  is  what  it  wants,"  said  my  sergeant  firmly. 

"  By  all  means  exercise  it,  then,"  said  I. 

The  carrier  demurred.  "  Very  good,  sir — but  how, 
sir?" 

"  Ask  the  sergeant,"  said  L  "  Sergeant,  how  do 
you  exercise  a  pigeon?  Lunge  it,  or  put  it  through 
Swedish  monkey  motions  ?  " 

The  sergeant  rubbed  his  chin  stubble. 


"Fly,  Gentle  Dove"  149 

"Can't  say  I  remember  the  official  method,  sir; 
one  might  take  it  for  a  walk  at  the  end  of  a  string, 
or " 

"  These  official  pigeons,"  I  interposed,  "  have  got 
to  be  treated  in  the  official  manner  or  they  won't  work; 
their  mechanism  becomes  deranged.  We  had  a  pigeon 
at  the  Umpteenth  Battle  of  Wipers  and  upset  it  some- 
how. Anyway,  when  we  told  it  to  buzz  off  and  fetch 
reinforcements,  it  sat  on  a  tree  licking  its  fluff  and  sing- 
ing, and  we  had  to  throw  mud  at  it  to  get  it  to  shift. 
Where  it  went  to  then  goodness  only  knows,  for  it  has 
never  been  seen  since.  I  am  going  to  do  the  right  thing 
by  this  bird." 

I  thereupon  sent  a  galloper  to  the  next  outpost,  oc- 
cupied by  the  Babe  and  Co.,  asking  him  the  official  re- 
cipe for  exercising  pigeons.  The  answer  came  back  as 
follows : — 

"  Ask  Albert  Edward.  All  I  know  about  'em  is  that 
you  mustn't  discharge  birds  of  opposite  sex  together  as 
they  stop  and  flirt. 

P.S. — ^You  haven't  got  such  a  thing  as  a  bit  of  cold 
pudden  about  you,  guv'nor,  have  you  ?    I'm  all  in." 

I  sent  the  galloper  galloping  on  to  Albert  Edward's 
post. 

"  Don't  discharge  birds  after  sunset,"  ran  his  reply ; 
"  they're  afraid  to  go  home  in  the  dark — that's  all  I  re- 
collect.   Ask  the  Skipper. 

P.S. — Got  a  bit  of  bully  beef  going  spare?  I'm 
tucked  up  something  terrible." 


150  The  Mud  Larks 

^■^— ^^^— -i— — ^^"^— ^—  ^1— i^^-^— .— — ^— ^— — « 

I  sigked  and  sent  my  messenger  on  to  the  Skipper, 
inquiring  the  official  method  of  exercising  pigeons. 
Half  an  hour  later  his  answer  reached  me — 

"  Don't  know.  Try  eating  'em.  That's  what  I'm 
doing  with  mine." 

While  on  the  subject  of  carrier-pigeons,  I  may  men- 
tion that  one  winter  night  I  was  summoned  to  Corps 
H.Q.  Said  a  Red  Hat :  "  We  are  going  to  be  rude  to 
the  Boche  at  dawn  and  we  want  you  to  go  over  with 
the  boys.  When  you  reach  your  objectives  just  drop 
US  a  pigeon  to  say  so.  Here's  a  chit,  take  it  to  the 
pigeon  loft  and  get  a  good  nippy  fowl.  Good  night  and 
good  luck." 

I  found  the  pigeon-fancier  inside  an  old  London 
omnibus  which  served  for  a  pigeon-loft,  spoon-feeding 
a  sick  bird.  A  dour  Lancastrian,  the  fancier  studied 
my  chit  with  a  sour  eye,  then,  grumbling  that  he  didn't 
know  what  the  army  was  coming  to  turning  birds  out  of 
bed  at  this  hour,  he  slowly  climbed  a  ladder  and,  poking 
his  head  through  a  trap  in  the  roof,  addressed  himself 
to  the  pigeons. 

"  That  you,  Llossie  ?  iNo,  you  can't  go  with  them  tail 
feathers  missing  to  the  General's  cat.  Jellicoe — no,  you 
can't  go  neither,  you've  'ad  a  'ard  day  out  with  them 
tanks.  ISTasty  cough  you've  got,  Gaby;  I'll  give  you  a 
drop  of  'ot  for  it  presently.  You're  breathin'  very 
'eavy,  Joffre ;  been  over-eatin'  yourself  again,  I  suppose 
- — couldn't  fly  a  yard.    Eustace,  you're  for  it." 

He  backed  down  the  ladder,  grasping  the  unfortunate 
Eustace,  stuffed  it  in  a  basket  and  handed  it  to  me. 


"Fly,  Gentle  Dove"  151 

"  I  hope  this  is  a  good  bird/'  said  I,  "  nippy  and  all 
that?" 

The  fancier  snorted,  "  Good  bird  ?  ISTothing  can't 
stop  'im,  barrages,  smoke,  nothing.  'E's  deserved  the 
V.C.  scores  of  times  over;  'e's  the  best  bird  in  tl;ie  army,| 
an'  don't  you  forget  it,  sir." 

I  promised  not  to,  caught  up  the  basket  and  fled. 

I  reached  the  neighbourhood  of  the  line  at  about 
2  a.m.  It  was  snowing  hard  and  the  whole  front  -was 
sugared  over  like  a  wedding-cake,  every  track  and  land- 
mark obliterated.  For  some  hours  I  groped  about  seek- 
ing Battalion  H.Q.,  tripping  over  hidden  wire,  tobogan- 
ning  down  snow-masked  craters  into  icy  shell-holes,  the 
inimitable  Eustace  with  me.  Finally  I  fell  head-first 
into  a  dug-out  inhabited  by  three  ancient  warriors,  who 
were  sitting  round  a  brazier  sucking  cigarettes.  They 
were  Brigade  Scouts,  they  told  me,  and  were  going  over 
presently.  They  were  also  Good  Samaritans,  one  of 
them,  Fred,  giving  me  his  seat  by  the  fire  and  a  mug 
of  scalding  cocoa,  while  his  colleagues,  Messrs.  Alf  and 
Bert,  attended  to  Eustace,  who  needed  all  the  attention 
he  could  get.  I  caught  snatches  of  their  conversation 
here  and  there :  "  Shall  us  toast  'im  over  the  brazier  a 
bit,  Alf  ? "  "  Wonder  if  a  drop  0'  rum  would  'earten 
'im?  "    "  Tip  it  into  his  jaws  when  'e  ya^vns,  Bert." 

At  length  Eustace's  circulation  was  declared  restored 
and  the  three  set  about  harnessing  themselves  for  the 
war,  encasing  their  legs  in  sand-bags,  winding  endless 
mufflers  round  their  heads  and  donning  innumerable 


152  The  Mud  Larks 

odd  overcoats,  so  that  their  final  appearance  was  more 
that  of  apple-women  than  scouts. 

We  then  set  out  for  the  battle,  Bert  leading  the  way 
towards  the  barrage  which  was  cracking  and  banging 
away  in  yellow  flashes  over  the  Boche  lines. 

Presently  we  heard  a  muffled  hail  ahead. 

"  Wazzerraatter,  Bert  ?  "  Alf  shouted. 

"  They've  quit — slung  their  'ook,"  came  the  voice. 

Fifty  yards  brought  us  bumping  up  against  Bert, 
who  was  prodding  through  the  debris  of  a  German  post 
with  the  point  of  his  bayonet. 

"  So  the  swines  have  beat  it  ?  "  said  Fred.  "  Any 
soovenirs  ?  " 

"  ]^ah !  "  said  Bert,  spitting,  "  not  a  blinkin'  'am- 
sandwich." 

"  Is  this  really  our  objective  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  It  is,  sir,"  Bert  replied.  "  Best  sit  down  and  keep 
quiet;  the  rest  of  the  boys  will  be  along  in  a  jifFy,  and 
they'd  bomb  their  own  grandmothers  when  they're 
worked  up." 

I  put  my  hand  in  the  basket  and  dragged  Eustace 
forth.  He  didn't  look  up  to  V.C.  form.  Still  I  had 
explicit  orders  to  release  him  when  our  objective  was 
reached,  and  obedience  is  second  nature  with  me. 

I  secured  my  message  to  his  leg,  wished  him  luck  and 
tossed  him  high  in  the  air.  A  swirl  of  snow  hid  him 
from  view. 

I  didn't  call  at  H.Q.  when  I  returned.  I  went 
straight  home  to  bed  and  stayed  there.  As  they  did  not 
send  for  me  and  I  heard  no  more  about  it  I  conjectured 


"Fly,  Gentle  Dove"  153 

that  the  infallible  Eustace  had  got  back  to  his  bus  and 
all  was  well.  Nevertheless  I  had  a  sort  of  uneasy  feel- 
ing about  him.  I  heard  no  more  of  it  for  ten  days,  and 
then,  out  walking  one  afternoon,  I  bumped  into  the 
pigeon-fancier.  There  was  no  way  of  avoiding  the  man ; 
the  lane  was  only  four  feet  wide,  bounded  by  nine-foot 
walls  with  glass  on  top.  So  I  halted  opposite  him, 
smiled  my  prettiest  and  asked  after  Eustace.  "  So  glad 
he  got  home  all  right,"  said  I ;  "  a  great  bird  that." 

The  fancier  glared  at  me,  his  sour  eyes  sparkling,  his 
fists  opening  and  shutting.  I  felt  that  only  bitter  dis- 
cipline stood  between  them  and  my  throat. 

"  Ay,  sir,"  said  he,  speaking  with  difficulty,  "  he's  a 
great  bird,  but  not  the  bird  he  was.  He  got  home  all 
right  yesterday,  but  very  stiff  in  the  legs  from  walking 
every  step  0'  the  way." 


154  The  Mud  Larks 

XXVI 
THERE  AND  BACK 

MY"  batman  is  a  man  with  a  grievance.  He  squats 
outside  my  tent  all  day  moodily  burnishing  my 
huttons  and  swears  and  sighs,  sighs  and  swears.  In  the 
words  of  my  groom  and  countryman,  "  Ye'd  think 
there'd  be  a  black  dog  atin'  the  hearrt  in  his  shest  the 
way  he  is,  the  poor  scut." 

I  learn  that  he  has  given  out  that  if  he  sees  a  crump 
coming  he'll  "  Blinkin'  well  wait  for  it,"  that  he  pre- 
sented his  bosom  chum  with  a  black  eye  gratis,  and  is 
declining  beer.  All  this  sounds  like  love,  but  isn't. 
This  is  the  way  of  it. 

Last  week  after  nineteen  months'  undetected  misbe- 
haviour in  the  tented  field,  he  was  granted  ten  days' 
leave.  He  departed  radiant  as  a  May  morn,  groomed 
and  glittering  from  spurs  to  cap  badge. 

Within  three  days  he  was  back  again. 

According  to  his  version  of  the  affair,  he  reached  the 
coast  in  good  order  and  was  given  a  hearty  meal  by  some 
ladies  in  a  canteen  but  lost  it  in  mid-Channel.  Owing 
to  mines,  air  raids,  and  things  both  boat  and  train  were 
scandalously  late,  but  in  the  end  he  arrived  at  Victoria 
at  6  a.m.  still  in  good  order.  Outside  the  station  were 
a  number  of  civilians  waiting  for  soldier  relatives.  One 
of  them,  a  small  sandy  man  in  a  black  bowler  and  tie, 


There  and  Back  155 

very  respectable  (connected  with  the  retail  undertaking 
trade,  my  batman  says)  accosted  him  and  inquired 
whether  anything  had  been  seen  of  his  brother  Charlie, 
a  territorial  bombardier  who  was  supposed  to  be  coming 
by  that  train,  but  had  not  materialized. 

My  batman  could  give  no  information  and  they  fell 
into  a  discussion  as  to  what  could  have  happened  to 
Charlie:  whether  he  might  have  missed  the  train  or 
fallen  off  the  boat.  My  batman  favoured  the  latter 
theory,  he  had  felt  very  like  it  himself,  he  said.  One 
thing  led  to  another  and  presently  the  sandy  man  said : 

"  Well,  what  about  it  ? "  lifting  his  elbow  sug- 
gestively, and  winking. 

My  batman  said  he  didn't  mind  if  he  did,  so  they 
adjourned  to  a  little  place  near  by  that  the  sandy  man 
knew  of,  and  had  one  or  two,  the  sandy  man  behaving 
like  a  perfect  gentleman  throughout,  standing  drink  for 
drink,  cigar  for  cigar. 

At  7  a.m.  or  thereabouts,  the  sandy  man  excused 
himself  on  the  plea  of  business  (which  he  explained  was 
very  healthy  owing  to  the  inclemency  of  the  weather) 
and  betook  himself  off,  my  batman  returning  to  Victoria 
to  retrieve  his  pack. 

By  this  time  his  order  was  not  so  good  as  it  had  been, 
owing,  he  thinks,  to  (a)  the  excitement  of  being  home 
again,  hearing  civilians  all  talking  English  and  seeing 
so  many  intact  houses  at  once;  (b)  the  bereaved  state 
of  his  stomach.  Whatever  it  was  he  navigated  to  the 
station  with  difficulty  and  "  comin'  over  all  dizzy  like," 
reclined  on  a  platform  bench  and  closed  his  eyes. 


156  The  Mud  Larks 

When  he  opened  them  again  it  was  to  see  the  white 
cliffs  of  Albion  rapidly  disappearing  over  the  stern  rail 
of  a  trooper.  He  closed  his  eyes  again  and  told  himself 
he  was  dreaming,  but  not  for  long — ^he  might  deceive 
his  reason  but  not  his  stomach. 

He  soon  saw  that  he  was  in  mid-Channel  going  back 
to  France.  He  sat  up  on  deck  and  shouted  for  someone 
to  stop  the  ship. 

"  'E's  come  to,  Bill,"  said  a  familiar  voice  at  his 
side,  and  turning,  he  beheld  the  cheerful  countenances 
of  Frederick  Wilkes  and  William  Buck,  two  stalwarts 
of  "  ours  "  who  were  returning  from  leave. 

]\Iy  batman  asked  Frederick  Wilkes  what  he  thought 
he  was  doing  of. 

"  Saving  you  from  six  months  in  clink  for  over-stay- 
ing your  leaf,  ol'  dear !  "  Frederick  replied  cheerfully. 
"  Me  and  Bill  found  you  on  the  station,  blind  to  the 
world,  so  we  loaded  you  on  the  train  and  bringed  you 
along.  Pretty  job  we  had  of  it,  too,  getting  you  past 
the  red-caps,  you  slopping  about  like  a  lu-natic." 

"  Clink!  Overstayin'  my  leaf !  "  shrilled  my  batman. 
"  Gor-blimy !    I  ain't  'ad  no  leaf — I  only  just  landed!  " 

"  Delerious  again,  Bill,"  said  Frederick,  and  Bill 
nodded.  "  Of  course  you've  had  your  leaf,  an'  a  wonder- 
ful good  leaf,  too,  by  the  looks  of  you — blind  to  the 
world  from  start  to  finish,  not  knowin'  dark  from  day- 
light." 

"  I'll  tell  the  first  E.T.O.  I  see  all  about  it  when  I 
land — you  perishin'  kidnappers !  "  foamed  my  batman. 

"  Ho  no,  you  won't !  "  said  Frederick,  complacently. 


There  and  Back  157 

"  "We  aren't  going  to  'ave  you  runnin'  about  in  your 
light-'eaded  condition  disgracin'  the  regiment — are  we, 
Bill?" 

"  jSTot  likely,"  William  Buck  replied.  "  We're  going 
to  take  you  back  with  us,  safe  and  sound  if  we  'ave  to 
break  your  neck  to  do  it,  an'  don't  you  forget  it,  oV 
man !  " 

I  think  it  is  extremely  improbable  that  my  batman 
ever  will. 


158  The  Mud  Larks 

XXVII 

HOT  AIE 

THE  scene  is  a  base  camp  behind  the  Western  Front. 
In  the  background  is  a  gravel  pit,  its  brow  fringed 
with  j)ines.  On  the  right-hand  side  is  a  black  hut; 
against  one  wall  several  cast-iron  cylinders  are  leaning; 
against  another  several  stretchers;  behind  it  a  squad  of 
E.A.M.C.  orderlies  are  playing  pitch  and  toss  for  profit 
and  pleasure.    On  the  left-hand  side  is  a  cemetery. 

On  the  turf  in  the  centre  of  the  stage  are  some  two 
hundred  members  of  the  well-known  British  family, 
Atkins.  The  matter  in  hand  being  merely  that  of  life 
and  death  those  in  the  rear  ranks  are  whiling  away  the 
time  by  playing  crown  and  anchor.  Their  less  fortunate 
comrades  in  the  prominence  of  the  front  ranks  are 
"  havin'  a  bit  0'  shut  eye  " — in  other  words  are  fast 
asleep  sitting  up,  propped  the  one  against  the  other. 

Before  them  stands  a  Bachelor  of  Science  disguised 
as  a  Second  Lieutenant.  From  the  green  and  black 
brassard  about  his  aiTa  and  the  attar  de  chlorine  and 
parfum  de  phosgene  which  cling  about  him  in  a  murky 
aureole  one  would  guess  him  to  be  connected  with  the 
Gas  Service.    And  one  would  be  quite  correct;  he  is. 

Lecturer :  "  Ahem !  Pay  attention  to  me,  please ;  T 
am  going  to  give  you  a  little  chat  on  Gas.    When  you  go 


Hot  Air  159 

up  the  line  one  of  two  things  must  inevitably  happen 
to  you;  you  will  either  be  gassed  or  you  will  not.  If 
you  are  not  gassed  strict  attention  to  this  lecture  will 
enable  you  to  talk  as  if  you  had  been.  On  the  other 
hand,  if  you  are  gassed  it  will  enable  you  to  distinguish 
to  which  variety  you  succumbed,  which  will  be  most  in- 
structive. 

"  There  are  more  sorts  of  gas  than  one.  There  is  the 
Home  or  Domestic  Gas,  which  does  odd  jobs  about  the 
house  at  a  bob  a  time,  and  which  out  here  is  fed  to  ob- 
servation balloons  to  get  them  off  the  earth.  There  is 
Laughing  Gas,  so  called  from  the  fun  the  dentist  gets 
out  of  his  victims  while  they  are  under  its  influence; 
and  lastly  there  is  Hun  Gas,  which  is  not  so  amusing. 

"  Three  varieties  of  gas  are  principally  employed  by 
the  Hun.  The  first  of  these  is  Chlorine.  Chlorine 
smells  like  a  strong  sanitary  orderly  or  weak  chloride 
of  lime.  The  second  on  our  list  is  Mustard  Gas,  so 
called  because  it  smells  like  garlic.  Everything  that 
smells  of  garlic  is  not  Mustard  Gas,  however,  as  a  certain 
British  Division  which  went  into  the  line  alongside  some 
of  our  brave  Southern  allies  regretfully  discovered  after 
they  had  been  sweltering  in  their  masks  for  thirty-six 
long,  long  hours. 

"  The  third  and  last  is  Phosgene.  Phosgene  has  a 
greenish  whitish  yellowish  odour  all  its  own,  reminiscent 
of  decayed  vegetation,  mouldy  hay,  old  clothes,  wet  hides, 
burnt  feathers,  warm  mice,  polecats,  dead  mules,  boiled 
cabbage,  stewed  prunes,  sour  grapes,  or  anything  else 
you  dislike. 


i6o  The  Mud  Larks 

"  As  all  these  gases  have  a  depressing  effect  on  the 
consumer  if  indulged  in  too  freely  the  War  Office  has 
devised  an  effective  counter-irritant,  the  scientific  won- 
der of  the  age,  the  soldier's  friend  and  multum  in  parvo 
— in  short,  the  Respirator-Box.  Here  you  will  ob- 
serve I  have  a  respirator-box  as  issued  to  the 
troops. 

"  There  are  other  kinds  with  lace  trimmings  and  sea- 
sonable mottoes  worked  in  coloured  beads  for  the  use 
of  the  Staff;  but  they  do  not  concern  us.  Let  us  now 
examine  the  ordinary  respirator-box.  What  do  we  dis- 
cover? A  neat  canvas  satchel,  knapsack  or  what-not, 
which  will  be  found  invaluable  for  the  storage  of  per- 
sonal knick-knacks,  such  as  soap,  knives  and  forks,  socks, 
iron  rations,  mouth-organs,  field-marshal's  batons,  etc. 
Within  the  satchel  (what-not  or  knapsack)  we  discover 
a  rubber  sponge-bag  pierced  with  motor  goggles,  a 
clothes-peg,  a  foot  of  garden  hose,  a  baby's  teether 
(chewers  among  you  will  find  this  a  comforting  sub- 
stitute for  gum),  a  yard  or  two  of  strong  twine  (first- 
aid  to  the  braces),  a  tube  of  Anti-Dimmer  (use  it  as 
tooth-paste,  your  smile  will  beam  more  brightly),  and 
a  record  card,  on  which  you  are  invited  to  inscribe  your 
name,  age,  vote  and  clubs;  your  golf,  polo  and  ludo 
handicaps;  complaints  as  to  the  cooking  or  service  and 
any  sunny  sentiments  or  epigrams  that  may  occur  to 
you  from  time  to  time. 

"  Should  you  be  in  the  line  and  detect  the  presence  of 
hostile  gas  in  large  numbers  your  first  action  should 
be  to  don  your  respirator-box  and  your  second  to  give 


Hot  Air  i6i 

the  alarm.  The  donning  of  the  respirator  is  done  in 
five  motions  by  the  best  people: — 

"  1.  Remove  the  cigarette,  chewing-gum  or  false 
teeth  from  the  mouth  and  place  it  (or  them)  behind  the 
ear  (or  ears). 

"  2.  Tear  the  sponge-bag  out  of  the  knapsack  (what- 
not or  satchel)  and  slap  it  boldly  on  the  face  as  you 
would  a  mustard-plaster. 

"  3.    Pin  it  to  your  nose  by  means  of  the  clothes-peg. 

"  4.    Work  the  elastics  well  into  the  back  hair. 

"  5.  Swallow  the  teether  and  carry  on  with  deep 
breathing  exercises,  as  done  by  Swedes,  sea-lions  and 
such-like. 

"  The  respirator  once  in  position,  pass  the  good  news 
on  to  your  comrades  by  performing  fortissimo  on  one 
of  the  numerous  alarums  with  which  every  nice  front 
line  is  liberally  provided.  But  please  remember  that 
gas  alarms  are  for  gas  only,  and  do  not  let  your  natural 
exuberance  or  love  of  music  carry  you  away,  as  it  is 
liable  to  create  a  false  impression;  witness  the  case  of 
some  of  our  high-spirited  Colonials,  who,  celebrating  a 
national  festival  (the  opening  of  the  whippet  racing- 
season  in  Xew  South  Wales)  with  a  full  orchestra  of 
Klaxon  and  Strombos  horns,  rattles,  gongs,  shell-cases, 
tin-cans,  sackbuts,  psalteries  and  other  instruments  of 
musick,  sent  every  living  soul  in  an  entire  army  area 
stampeding  into  their  smell-hats,  there  to  remain  for 
forty-eight  hours  without  food,  drink  or  benefit  of 
clergy, 

"  Having  given  you  full  instructions  as  to  the  correct 


1 62  The  Mud  Larks 

method  of  entering  your  respirators  I  will  now  tell 
you  how  to  extricate  yourselves.  You  must  first  be 
careful  to  ascertain  that  there  is  no  gas  left  about. 
Tests  are  usually  made  (1)  with  a  white  mouse,  (2) 
with  a  canary. 

"  If  the  white  mouse  turns  green  there  is  gas  present ; 
if  it  don't  there  ain't.  If  the  canary  wags  his  tail  and 
whistles  '  Gee !  ain't  it  dandy  down  in  Dixie ! '  all  is 
well,  but  if  it  wheezes  ^  The  End  of  a  Perfect  Day ' 
and  moults  violently,  beware,  beware !  If  through  the 
negligence  of  the  Quartermastering  Department  you 
have  not  been  equipped  with  either  mice  or  canaries  do 
not  start  sniffing  for  gas  yourselves,  but  remember  that 
your  lives  are  of  value  to  your  King  and  country  and 
send  for  an  officer.  To  have  first  sniff  of  all  gas  is  one 
of  an  officer's  privileges ;  he  hasn't  many,  but  this  is  one 
of  them  and  very  jealously  guarded  as  such.  If  an 
officer  should  catch  you  snuffing  up  all  the  gas  in  the 
neighbourhood  he  will  be  justifiably  annoyed  and  peev- 
ish. 

"  Now;  having  given  you  all  the  theory  of  anti-gas 
precautions,  we  will  indulge  in  a  little  practice.  When 
I  shout  the  word  '  Gas ! '  my  assistants  will  distribute 
a  few  smoke  bombs  among  you,  and  every  man  will  don 
his  respirator  in  five  motions  and  wend  his  way  towards 
the  gas-chamber,  entering  it  by  the  south  door  and  leav- 
ing it  by  the  north.  Is  that  quite  clear?  Then  get 
ready.    Gas!  " 

Four  or  five  JS'.C.O.  Instructors  suddenly  pop  up 


Hot  Air  163 

out  of  the  gravel  pit  and  bombard  the  congregation  with 
hissing  smoke  grenades.  The  front  ranks  wake  up, 
spring  to  their  feet  in  terror  and  leg  it  for  safety  at  a 
stretched  gallop,  shedding  their  respirators  for  lightness' 
sake  as  they  flee.  The  rear  ranks,  who,  in  spite  of  them- 
selves, have  heard  something  of  the  lecture,  burrow 
laboriously  into  their  masks.  Some  wear  them  as  hats, 
some  as  ear-muffs,  some  as  chest-protectors. 

The  smoke  rolls  over  them  in  heavy  yellow  billows. 

Shadow  shapes,  hooded  like  Spanish  inquisitors,  may 
be  seen  here  and  there  crouched  as  in  prayer,  struggling 
together  or  groping  blindly  for  the  way  out.  One 
unfortunate  has  his  head  down  a  rabbit-hole,  several 
blunder  over  the  edge  of  the  gravel  pit  and  are  seen  no 
more. 

There  is  a  noise  of  painful  laboured  breathing  as  of 
grampuses  in  deep  water  or  pigs  with  asthma. 

The  starchy  IST.C.O.  Instructors  close  on  the  helpless 
mob  and  with  muffled  yelps  and  wild  waving  of  arms 
herd  them  towards  the  south  door  of  the  gas-chamber, 
push  them  inside  and  shoot  the  bolts. 

The  R.A.M.C.  Orderlies  are  busy  hauling  the  bodies 
out  of  the  north  door,  loading  them  on  stretchers  and 
trotting  them  across  to  the  cemetery,  at  the  gates  of 
which  stands  the  Base  Burial  Officer  beamnig  welcome. 

The  lecturer,  seeing  the  game  well  in  progress,  lights 
a  pipe  and  strolls  home  to  tea. 


164  The  Mud  Larks 

XXVIII 

THE  CONVERT 

T  FOUND  No.  764,  Trooper  Hartley,  W.J.,  in  the 
-■■  horse  lines,  sitting  on  a  hay-bale  perusing  a  letter 
which  seemed  to  give  him  some  amusement.  On  seeing 
me  he  arose,  clicked  his  spurs  and  saluted.  I  returned 
the  salute,  graciously  bidding  him  carry  on.  We  go 
through  the  motions  of  officer  and  man  very  punctili- 
ously, William  and  I.  In  other  days,  in  other  lands, 
our  relative  positions  were  easier. 

The  ceremonies  over  I  sat  down  beside  him  on  the 
hay-bale,  and  we  became  Bill  and  Jim  to  each  other. 

"  Did  you  ever  run  across  Gustav  Miiller  in  the  old 
days  ?  "  William  inquired,  thumbing  a  fistful  of  dark 
Magliesburg  tobacco  into  his  corn-cob  incinerator. 
"  '  Mafoota,'  the  niggers  called  him,  a  beefy  man  with 
an  underdone  complexion." 

"'  Yes,"  I  said,  "  he  turned  up  in  my  district  on  the 
Wallaby  in  1913  or  thereabouts,  with  nothing  in  the 
world  but  a  topee,  an  army  overcoat  and  a  box  of  parlour 
magic.  Set  up  as  a  wizard  in  Chala's  kraal.  Used  to 
produce  yards  of  ribbon  out  of  the  mouths  of  the 
afflicted,  and  collapsible  flower-pots  out  of  their  nostrils 
— casting  out  devils,  you  understand.  Was  scratching 
together  a  very  comfortable  practice;  but  he  began  to 
dabble  in  black  politics,  so  I  moved  him  on.     An  en- 


The  Convert  165 

tertaining  old  rogue ;  I  don't  know  what  became  of  him." 
William  ^Yinked  at  me  through  a  cloud  of  blue 
tobacco  smoke.  "  I  do.  He  went  chasing  a  rainbow's 
end  ISTorth  of  the  Lakes,  and  I  went  along  with  him. 
You  see,  Gustav's  great-aunt  Gretchen  appeared  to  him 
in  a  dream  and  told  him  there  was  alluvial  gold  in  a 
certain  river  bed,  tons  of  it,  easy  washing,  so  we  "went 
after  it.  We  didn't  find  it;  but  that's  neither  here  nor 
there;  a  man  must  take  a  chance  now  and  again,  and 
this  was  the  first  time  Gustav's  great-aunt  had  let  him 
do^vn.  She'd  given  him  the  straight  tip  for  two  Mel- 
bourne Cups  and  a  Portugoose  lottery  in  her  time. 
Some  girl,  great-aunt  Gretchen!  Anyway  there  was 
Gustav  and  me  away  up  at  the  tail-end  of  Nowhere, 
with  the  bo}'S  yapping  for  six  months'  back  pay,  and  we 
couldn't  have  bought  a  feed  of  hay  for  a  nightmare 
between  us.     We  just  naturally  had  to  do  something, 

so " 

"  So  you  just  naturally  took  to  poaching  ivory,"  said 
I,     "  I  know  you.    Go  on." 

William  grinned.  "  Well,  a  man  must  live,  you 
know.  How'msodever  we  struck  a  bonanza  vein  of 
mjufu  right  away  and  piled  up  the  long  white  nuggets 
in  a  way  that  would  drive  you  to  poetry.  A  Somali 
Arab  took  the  stuif  from  us  on  the  spot,  paying  us  in 
cattle  at  a  fifty-per-cent  discount,  which  was  reasonable 
enough,  seeing  that  he  ran  ninety  per  cent  of  the  risks. 
Everything  sailed  along  like  a  beautiful  dream.  The 
elephants  was  that  tame  they'd  eat  out  of  your  hand, 
and  you  could  stroll  out  and  bowl  over  a  dozen  of  the 


1 66  The  Mud  Larks 

silly  blighters  before  breakfast  if  you  felt  in  the  mood. 
The  police  hadn't  got  our  address  as  yet.  The  only 
competitor  that  threatened  got  buckshot  in  his  breeches, 
which  changed  his  mind  and  direction  for  him  very 
precipitous.     The  industry  boomed  and  boomed. 

"  '  Another  year  of  this/  says  I  to  myself,  '  and  I'll 
retire  home  and  grow  roses,  drive  a  pony-trap  and  be  a 
churchwarden.' 

"  Then  one  day  the  Arab  headman  blows  into  camp, 
and  squatting  outside  our  tent,  commences  to  lamentate 
and  pipe  his  eye  in  a  way  that  would  make  you  think 
he'd  ate  a  skinful  of  prickly  pears. 

"  '  What's  biting  you.  Bluebell  ? '  I  asked. 

"  '  Allah  aJchar!  God  is  good  but  business  is  rotten,* 
says  he,  and  pitches  a  woeful  yarn  how  that  columns  of 
Askaris  was  marching  thither  and  thence,  poking  their 
flat  noses  in  where  they  wasn't  invited;  Inglische  gun- 
boats were  riding  every  wave,  scaring  seven  bells  out  of 
the  coast  dhows,  and  consequently  commerce  was  sent  to 
blazes  and  a  poor  man  couldn't  get  an  honest  living  no- 
how. The  long  and  short  of  it  was  that  ivory  smuggling 
was  off  for  the  period  of  the  War. 

"  '  What  war,  you  scum  ? '  says  Gustav,  pricking  his 
freckled  ears.    '  Who's  warring? ' 

"  '  The  Inglische  and  Germans,  of  course,'  says  the 
Arab.     '  Didn't  the  B'wana  know  ? ' 

"  '  ISTo,  the  B'wana  doesn't,'  says  I ;  '  our  private 
Marconi  outfit  is  broke  dowTi  owing  to  the  monkeys 
swinging  on  the  wires.    ITow  trot  home,  you  barbarous 


The  Convert  167 


ape,  while  me  and  my  colleague  throws  a  ray  of  pure  in- 
tellect on  the  problem.    Bassi, ' 

"So  he  soon  dismisses  at  the  double  and  is  seen  no 
more  in  them  vicinities. 

" '  Well,  partner,'  says  I  to  Gustav,  '  this  is  a  fair 
knock-out — what  ? ' 

"  But  Gustav,  he  grumbles  something  I  couldn't 
catch  and  walks  off  into  the  bush  with  his  head  dovm, 
afflicted  with  thought. 

"  He  didn't  come  in  for  supper,  so  I  scoffed  his  share 
and  turned  in. 

"  At  moonrise  I  thought  I  heard  a  bull  elephant  trum- 
peting like  he  was  love-sick,  but  it  wasn't.  It  was 
Gustav  coming  home  singing  the  Wacht  am  Bhein.  He 
brings  up  opposite  my  bed. 

"  '  Oh,  give  over  and  let  the  poor  lions  and  leopards 
snatch  some  sleep,'  says  I. 

"  '  I  was  born  in  Shermany,'  says  he. 

"  '  Don't  let  that  keep  you  awake,  ole  man,'  says  I. 
*  What  saith  the  prophet  ?  "  If  a  cat  kittens  on  a  fish- 
plate they  ain't  necessarily  herrings."  ' 

"  '  I'm  a  Sherman,'  says  he. 

"  '  You've  been  so  long  with  white  men  that  nobody'd 
know  it,'  says  I.  '  Forget  it,  and  I  won't  tell  on  you. 
Why,  you  ain't  seen  Shermany  these  thirty  years,  and 
you  wouldn't  know  a  squarehead  if  you  was  to  trip  over 
one.    Go  to  bed,  Mr.  Caruso.' 

"  '  Well,  I'm  going  to  be  a  mighty  good  Sherman 
now,  to  make  up  for  lost  time,'  says  he  grim-like,  '  and 


1 68  The  Mud  Larks 

in  case  you  got  any  objections  I'll  point  out  that  you've 
the  double  express  proximitous  to  your  stomach.' 

"  He  had  me  bailed  up  all  right.  Arguments  weren't 
no  use  with  the  cuss.  '  I'm  a  Sherman '  was  all  he'd 
say;  and  next  day  we  starts  to  hoof  it  to  Germany  ter- 
ritory, me  promenading  in  front  calling  Gustav  every 
name  but  his  proper  one,  and  him  marching  behind, 
prodding  me  in  the  back  with  the  blunderbuss.  He  dis- 
enjoyed  that  trip  even. more  than  I  did;  he  had  to  step 
behind  me  all  day  for  fear  I'd  dodge  him  into  the  bush ; 
and  he  sat  up  all  night  for  fear  the  boys  would  rescue 
me.  He  got  as  red-eyed  as  a  bear  and  his  figure  dropped 
off  him  in  bucketfuls. 

"  At  the  end  of  a  month  we  crossed  the  border  and  hit 
the  trail  of  the  Deutscher — burnt  villages  everywhere, 
with  the  mutilated  bodies  of  women  and  picaninnies  ly- 
ing about,  stakes  driven  through  'em,  Waugh ! 

"  '  Are  you  still  a  Sherman  ? '  I  asks ;  but  Gustav 
says  nothing;  he'd  gone  a  bit  white  about  the  gills  all 
the  same.  Then  one  morning  we  tumbles  into  one  of 
their  columns  and  the  game  is  up.  I  was  given  a  few 
swipes  with  a  I'ihoJco  for  welcome  and  hauled  before  the 
Commander,  a  little  short  cove  with  yellow  hair,  a  hand- 
carved  jaw  and  spectacles.  He  diagnosed  my  case  as 
serious,  prescribed  me  some  more  hiboho,  and  I  was 
hove  into  a  grass  hut  under  guard,  pending  the  obse- 
quies. 

"  The  Officers  called  Gustav  a  good  sport,  gave  him 
a  six-by-four  cigar  and  took  him  off  to  dinner.  I  noticed 
he  looked  back  at  me  once  or  twice.     So  I  sits  down  in 


The  Convert  169 

the  hut  and  meditates  on  some  persons'  sense  of  humour, 
with  a  big  Askari  buck  padding  it  up  and  down  outside, 
■whiling  awaj  the  sunny  hours  with  a  bit  of  disembowel- 
ling practice  on  his  bayonet. 

"  A  couple  of  days  flits  by  while  the  column  is  away 
spreading  the  good  word  with  fire  and  stake.  Then  on 
the  third  night  I  hears  a  scuffle  outside  the  hut,  and 
the  Askari  comes  somersaulting  backwards  through  the 
grass  wall  like  as  if  an  earthquake  had  butted  him  in  the 
brisket.  He  gave  a  couple  of  kicks  and  stretched  out 
like  as  if  he  was  tired. 

"  '  Whist !  Is  that  you,  Bill  ? '  comes  a  whisper 
through  the  hole. 

"  '  What's  left  of  me,'  says  I.     '  Who  are  you  ? ' 

"  '  Me — Gustav,'  says  the  whisperer. 

" '  What's  the  antic  this  time  ?  Capturing  n^e 
again  ? '  says  I. 

"  '  Xo,  I'm  rescuing  you  now,'  says  he. 

"  '  The  devil  you  are,'  says  I,  and  with  that  I  glided 
out  through  the  hole  and  followed  him  on  my  stomach. 
A  sentry  gave  tongue  at  the  scrub-edge,  but  Gustav  rose 
up  out  of  the  grass  and  bumped  him  behind  the  ear  and 
we  went  on. 

"  '  Well,  you're  a  lovely  quick-change  artist,  captur- 
ing a  bloke  one  moment  and  rescuing  him  the  next-,' 
says  I  presently.  '  What's  come  over  you  ?  Ain't  you 
a  Sherman  no  more  ? ' 

"  Gustav  gi-oans  as  if  his  heart  was  broke.  '  I've 
been  away  thirty  years.  I  didn't  know  they  was  like 
that ;  I'd  forgotten.    Oh,  my  Gawd,  what  swine ! '    He 


lyo  The  Mud  Larks 

spits  like  a  man  that  has  bit  sour  beer,  and  we  ran  on 
again." 

"  Didn't  they  chase  you  ?  "  I  asked. 

William  nodded. 

"  But  they  couldn't  catch  two  old  bush-bucks  like  us, 
and  the  next  day  we  fell  in  with  a  British  column  that 
was  out  hunting  them.  'Twas  a  merry  meeting.  Grustav 
enlisted  with  the  Britishers  on  the  spot." 

William  tapped  the  travel-soiled  letter  in  his  hand. 
"  This  is  from  him.  He's  down  in  Nairobi,  wounded. 
He  says  he's  sitting  up  taking  nourishment,  and  that 
great-aunt  Gretchen  has  appeared  to  him  again  and 
showed  him  a  diamond  pipe  in  the  Khali  Hari,  which 
will  require  a  bit  of  looking  into  apres  la  guerre — if 
there  ever  is  any  apres." 


I 


A  Rest  Cure  171 

XXIX 
A  REST  CUEE 

NOT  long  ago  a  notice  appeared  in  Part  II  Orders 
to  the  effect  that  our  Army  had  established  a  Rest 
Home  at  X  where  invalid  officers  might  be  sent  for  a 
week's  recuperation. 

Now  X  is  a  very  pleasant  place,  consisting  of  a  crowd 
of  doll's-house  chalets  set  between  cool  pine-woods  and 
the  sea. 

The  chalets  are  labelled  variously  "  Villa  des  Roses," 
"  Les  Hirondelles,"  "  Sans  Souci,"  and  so  on,  and  in 
the  summertimes  of  happier  years  swarmed  with  com- 
fortable bourgeois,  bare-legged  children  and  Breton 
nannas ;  but  in  these  stern  days  a  board  above  the  gate 
of  "  Villa  des  Roses "  announces  that  the  Assistant- 
Director  of  Agi-iculture  may  be  found  within  meditating 
on  the  mustard-and-cress  crop,  while  "  Les  Hirondelles  " 
and  "  Sans  Souci  "  harbour  respectively  the  Base  Press 
Censor  (whose  tar-brush  hovered  over  this  perfectly 
priceless  article)  and  a  platoon  of  the  D.L.O.L.R.R.V.R. 
(Duchess  of  Loamshire's  Own  Ladies'  Rabbit  Rearing 
Volunteer  Reserve). 

X,  as  I  said  before,  is  an  exceedingly  pleasant  place; 
you  may  lean  out  of  the  window  o'  mornings  and  watch 
the  D.L.O.L.R.R.V.R.'s  Sergeant-Majoress  putting  her 
platoon  through  Swedish  monkey  motions,  and  in  the 


172  The  Mud  Larks 

afternoons  you  can  recline  on  the  sands  and  watch  them 
sporting  in  the  glad  sea-waves  (telescopes  protruding 
from  the  upper  windows  of  "  Villa  des  Roses  "  and 
"  Sans  Souci "  suggesting  that  the  A.D.A.  and  the 
B.P.C.  are  similarly  employed). 

The  bctween-whiles  may  be  spent  lapping  up  ozone 
from  the  sea,  resin  from  the  pine-woods,  and  champagne 
cocktails  which  Marie-Louise  mixes  so  cunningly  in  the 
little  cafe  round  the  corner;  and  what  with  one  thing 
and  another  the  invalid  officer  goes  pig-jumping  back  to 
the  line  fit  to  mince  whole  brigades  of  Huns  with  his 
bare  teeth. 

X,  you  will  understand,  is  a  very  admirable  institu- 
tion, and  when  we  heard  about  this  Rest  Home  we 
were  all  for  it  and  tried  to  cultivate  fur  on  the  tongue, 
capped  hocks  and  cerebral  meningitis;  but  the  Skipper 
hardened  his  heart  against  us  and  there  was  nothing 
doing. 

Then  one  morning  MacTavish  came  over  all  dithery- 
like  in  the  lines,  fell  up  against  a  post,  smashed  his 
wrist-watch  and  would  have  brained  himself  had  that 
been  possible. 

He  picked  himself  up,  apologised  for  making  a  fool 
of  himself  before  the  horses,  patched  his  scalp  with 
plaster  from  his  respirator,  borrowed  my  reserve  watch 
"  Pretty  Polly,"  and  carried  on. 

"  Pretty  Polly "  can  do  two  laps  to  any  other 
watch's  one  without  turning  a  hair-spring.  Externally 
she  looks  very  much  like  any  other  mechanical  pup  the 
Ordnance  sells  you  for  eleven  francs  net;  her  secret 


i 


A  Rest  Cure  173 

lies  in  her  spring,  which,  I  imagine,  must  have  been  in- 
tended for  "  Big  Ben/'  but  sprang  into  the  wrong  chassis 
by  mistake. 

At  all  events  as  soon  as  it  is  wound  up  it  lashes  out 
left  and  right  with  such  violence  that  the  whole  machine 
leaps  with  the  shock  of  its  internal  strife  and  hops  about 
on  the  table  after  the  manner  of  a  Mexican  dancing 
bean,  clucking  like  an  ostrich  that  has  laid  twins. 

It  will  be  gathered  that  my  "  Pretty  Polly  "  is  not 
the  ultimate  syllable  in  the  way  of  accuracy,  but  as  Mac- 
Tavish  seemed  to  want  her  and  had  been  kind  to  me  in 
the  way  of  polo-sticks,  I  handed  her  over  without  a  mur- 
mur. 

The  same  afternoon  MacTavish  came  over  dithery 
again,  dived  into  a  heap  of  bricks  and  knocked  himself 
out  for  the  full  count 

We  put  him  to  bed  and  signalled  the  Vet.  The  Vet 
reported  that  MacTavish's  temperature  was  well  above 
par  and  booming.  He  went  on  to  state  that  MacTavish 
was  suffering  from  P.U.O.  (which  is  Spanish  for 
"  flu ")  and  that  he  probably  wouldn't  weather  the 
night. 

The  Skipper  promptly  'phoned  O.C.  Burials,  inviting 
him  to  dine  next  evening,  and  Albert  Edward  wired  his 
tailor,  asking  what  was  being  worn  in  headstones. 

William,  our  Mess  President,  took  up  a  position  by 
the  sick  man's  side  in  hopes  he  would  regain  conscious- 
ness for  long  enough  to  settle  his  mess-bill,  and  the  rest 
of  us  spent  the  evening  recalling  memories  of  poor  old 
Mac,  his  many  sterling  qualities,  etc. 


174  The  Mud  Larks 

Howev^er,  next  morning  a  batman  poked  his  head 
into  the  Mess  and  said  could  Mr.  MacTavish  have  a 
little  whisky,  please,  he  was  fancying  it,  and  anyway 
you  couldn't  force  none  of  that  there  grool  down  him 
not  if  you  was  to  use  a  drenching  bit. 

At  noon  the  batman  was  back  to  say  that  Mr.  Mac- 
Tavish was  fancying  a  cigarette  now,  also  a  loan  of  the 
gramophone  and  a  few  cheerful  records. 

The  Skipper  promptly  'phoned  postponing  O.C. 
Burials,  and  Albert  Edward  wired  his  tailor,  changing 
his  order  to  that  of  a  canary  waistcoat. 

That  evening  MacTavish  tottered  into  the  Mess  and 
managed  to  surround  a  little  soup,  a  brace  of  cutlets 
and  a  bottle  of  white  wine  without  coming  over  dithery 
again. 

But  for  all  that  he  was  not  looking  his  best;  he 
weaved  in  his  walk,  his  eye  was  dull,  his  nose  hot,  his 
ear  cold  and  drooping,  and  the  Skipper,  gazing  upon 
him,  remembered  the  passage  in  Part  II  Orders  and 
straightway  sat  down  and  applied  that  MacTavish  be 
sent  to  X  at  once,  adding  such  a  graphic  pen-picture  of 
the  invalid  (most  of  it  copied  from  a  testimonial  to 
somebody's  backache  pills)  as  to  reduce  us  to  tears  and 
send  MacTavish  back  to  his  bed  badly  shaken  to  hear 
how  ill  he'd  been. 

The  Skipper  despatched  his  pen-picture  to  H.Q.  and 
forgot  all  about  it,  and  so  did  H.Q.  apparently,  for  we 
heard  nothing  further,  and  in  due  course  forgot  all  about 
it  ourselves,  and  in  the  meanwhile  MacTavish  got  back 


A  Rest  Cure  175 

into  form,  and  MacTavish  in  form  is  no  shrinking  lily 
be  it  said. 

He  has  a  figure  which  tests  every  stitch  in  his  Sam 
Browne,  a  bright  blue  eye  and  a  complexion  which  an 
external  application  of  mixed  weather  and  an  internal 
application  of  tawny  port  has  painted  the  hue  of  the 
beetroot. 

Then  suddenly,  like  a  bomb  from  the  blue,  an  ambu- 
lance panted  up  to  the  door  and  presented  a  H.Q.  chit 
to  the  effect  that  the  body  of  MacTavish  be  delivered 
to  it  at  once  to  bear  off  to  X. 

The  Skipper  at  the  time  was  out  hacking  and  Albert 
Edward  was  in  charge;  he  sent  an  orderly  flying  to 
MacTavish,  who  rolled  in  from  his  tent  singing  "  My 
Friend  John  "  at  the  top  of  his  voice  and  looking  more 
like  an  over-fed  beetroot  than  ever. 

"  Dash  it  all,  I  don't  want  to  go  to  their  confounded 
mortuary,"  he  shouted ;  "  never  felt  fitter  in  my  life.  I 
can't  go ;  I  won't  go !  " 

"  You'll  have  to,"  said  Albert  Edward;  ''can't  let  the 
Skipper  down  after  that  pen-picture  he  wrote ;  the  Staff 
would  never  believe  another  word  he  said.  No,  Mac- 
Tavish, my  son,  you'll  have  to  play  the  game  and  go." 

"  But,  you  ass,  look  at  him,"  wailed  the  Babe ;  "  look 
at  his  ruddy,  ruby,  tomato-ketchup,  plum-and-apple 
complexion.    What  are  you  going  to  do  about  that  ?  " 

"  I'll  settle  his  complexion,"  replied  Albert  Edward 
grimly ;  "  tell  his  man  to  toss  his  tooth-brush  into  the 
meat-waggon ;  and  you,  Mac,  come  with  me." 

He  led  the  violently  protesting  MacTavish  into  the 


176  The  Mud  Larks 

kitchen.  The  cook  tells  me  Albert  Edward  pounded  two 
handfuls  of  flour  into  M.acTavish's  complexion  and 
filled  his  eye-sockets  up  with  coal-dust,  and  I  quite  be- 
lieve the  cook,  for  in  five  minutes'  time  I  came  on  Albert 
Edward  dragging  what  I  at  first  took  to  be  the  body  of 
a  dead  Pierrot  down  the  passage  towards  the  waiting 
ambulance,  at  the  same  time  exhorting  it  to  play  the 
game  and  wobble  for  the  Skipper's  sake. 

The  wretched  MacTavish,  choking  with  flour  and 
blinded  with  coal-dust,  wobbled  like  a  Clydesdale  with 
the  staggers. 

I  saw  a  scared  R.x\.M.C.  orderly  bound  out  of  the 
car  and  assist  Albert  Edward  to  hoist  MacTavish 
aboard,  trip  him  up  and  pin  him  down  on  a  stretcher. 
Then  the  ambulance  coughed  swiftly  out  of  sight. 

The  allotted  week  passed  but  no  MacTavish  came 
bounding  back  to  us  like  a  giant  refreshed  with  great 
draughts  of  resin,  and  we  grew  anxious ;  which  anxiety 
did  not  abate  when,  in  reply  to  the  Skipper's  inquiries, 
the  Rest  Home  authorities  wired  denying  all  knowledge 
of  him. 

Goodness  knows  what  we  should  have  done  if  a  letter 
from  MacTavish  himself  had  not  arrived  next  morning, 
to  say  that  he  had  lain  on  his  back  in  the  ambulance  dig- 
ging coal-dust  out  of  his  eyes  and  coughing  up  flour  till 
the  car  stopped,  not,  to  his  surprise,  at  the  Rest  Home, 
but  at  a  Casualty  Clearing  Station. 

Some  snuffling  R.A.M.C.  orderlies  bore  him  teilderly 
to  a  tent  and  a  doctor  entered,  also  snuffling.  Mac- 
Tavish is  of  the  opinion  that  the  whole  of  the  medical 


A  Rest  Cure  177 

staff  bad  P.U.O.,  and  the  doctor  was  the  sickest  of  the 
lot  and  far  from  reliable. 

At  all  events,  on  seeing  MacTavisb's  face,  be  ejacu- 
lated a  bronchial  "  Good  Lord !  "  and  tearing  MacTav- 
isb's tunic  open,  stuck  a  trumpet  against  bis  tummy  and 
listened  for  the  ticks. 

Apparently  be  beard  something  sensational,  for  be 
wheezed  another  "  Good  Lord !  "  and  decorated  Mac- 
Tavish  with  a  scarlet  label. 

Within  an  hour  our  hero  found  himself  on  board  a 
Red  Cross  train  en  route  for  the  coast. 

There  were  a  lot  of  cheerful  wounded  on  the  bus, 
getting  all  the  soup  and  jelly  they  wanted;  but  Mac- 
Tavisb  got  only  lukewarm  milk  and  precious  little  of 
that.  From  scraps  of  bushed  conversation  be  caught 
here  and  there  be  gathered  that  bis  life  bung  by  a  thread. 

He  was  feeling  very  bewildered  and  depressed,  be 
said,  but,  remembering  bis  duty  to  the  Skipper,  played 
the  game  and  kept  body  and  soul  together  on  drips  of 
jelly  surreptitiously  begged  from  the  cheerful  wounded. 

!N^ext  morning  be  found  himself  in  hospital  in  Eng- 
land, where  be  still  remains.  He  says  he  has  been 
promoted  from  warm  milk  to  cold  slops,  but  is  still 
liable  to  die  at  any  moment,  be  understands. 

He  has  discovered  that  be  was  sent  home  with  "  gal- 
loping heart  disease,"  but  nobody  in  the  hospital  can  get 
even  a  trot  out  of  it,  and  boards  of  learned  physicians 
sit  on  him  all  day  long,  their  trumpets  planted  on  his 
tummy  listening  for  the  ticks. 

MacTavish  says  be  thinks  it  improbable  that  they 


178  The  Mud  Larks 

ever  will  hear  any  ticks  now,  for  the  excellent  reason 
that  he  threw  the  cause  thereof — my  "  Pretty  Polly," 
to  wit — out  of  the  window  the  day  he  arrived. 

In  a  postscript  he  adds  that  he  considers  he  has  played 
the  game  far  enough,  and  that  if  the  Skipper  doesn't 
come  and  bail  him  out  soon  he'll  bite  the  learned  physi- 
cians, kiss  the  nurses,  sing  "  My  Priend  John  '^  and 
disgrace  the  Eegiment  for  ever. 


The  Harriers   (I)  179 


XXX 

THE  HAREIERS  (I) 

fTHHE  Boche  having  lately  done  a  retreat — "  strategic 
-■"  retirement,"  "  tactical  adjustment/'  "  elastic  eva- 
sion," or  whatever  Ludendorff  is  calling  it  this  week — 
in  plain  words  the  Boche,  having  gloriously  trotted 
baclnvards  off  a  certain  slice  of  France,  Albert  Edward 
and  I  found  ourselves  attached  to  a  Corps  II.Q.  operat- 
ing in  a  wilderness  of  grass-grown  fields,  ruined  villages 
and  smoking  chateaux. 

One  evening  Albert  Edward  loitered  up  to  the  hen- 
house I  was  occupying  at  the  time  and  chatted  to  me 
through  the  wires  as  I  shaved. 

"  Put  up  seventeen  hares  and  ten  covey  of  partridges 
visiting  outposts  to-day — take  my  advice  and  scrap  that 
moustache  while  you're  about  it,  it  must  be  a  heavy 
drain  on  your  system — and  twenty  hares  and  four  covey 
riding  home.  Do  you  find  lathering  the  ears  improves 
their  growth,  or  what  ?  " 

"  The  country  is  crawling  with  game,"  said  I,  ignor- 
ing his  personalities,  "  and  here  we  are  hanging  body 
and  soul  together  on  bully  and  dog  biscuit." 

"  Exactly,"  said  Albert  Edward,  "  and  in  the  mean- 
while the  festive  lapin  breeds  and  breeds.  Has  it  ever 
occurred  to  you  that,  if  something  isn't  done  soon,  we'll 
have  Australia's  sad  story  over  again  here  in  Picardy  ? 


i8o  The  Mud  Larks 

Give  the  rabbits  a  chance  and  in  no  time  they'll  have 
eaten  off  all  the  crops  in  France.  Why,  on  the  Burra 
I've  seen " 

"  One  moment,"  said  I ;  "  if  I  listen  to  your  South 
Australian  rabbit  story  again  you've  got  to  listen  to 
my  South  African  locust  yarn ;  it's  only  fair." 

"  Oh,  shut  up,"  Albert  Edward  growled ;  "  can't  you 
understand  this  question  is  deadly  serious  ? " 

"  Best  put  the  Tanks  on  to  'em  then,"  I  suggested ; 
"  they'd  enjoy  themselves,  and  the  Waterloo  Cup 
wouldn't  be  in  it — Captain  Monkey- Wrench's  brindled 
whippet,  '  Sardine  Tin,'  6  to  4 ;  Major  Spanner's  '  Pig 
Iron,'  7  to  2 ;  even  money  the  field." 

"  Your  humour  is  a  trifle  strained,"  said  Albert  Ed- 
ward ;  "  if  you're  not  careful  you'll  crack  a  joke  at  the 
expense  of  a  tendon  one  of  these  days." 

"  Look  here,"  said  I,  wiping  the  blood  off  my  safety- 
razor,  "  you're  evidently  struggling  to  give  expression 
to  some  heavy  brain  wave ;  out  with  it." 

"  What  about  a  pack  of  harriers  ? "  said  Albert  Ed- 
ward. "  There  must  be  swarms  of  sportive  tykes  about, 
faithful  Fidos  that  have  stuck  to  the  dear  old  homestead 
through  thick  and  thin,  also  refugee  animals  that  follow 
the  sweet-scented  infantry  cookers.  I've  got  my  old 
hunting-horn ;  you've  got  your  old  crop ;  between  the  two 
we  ought  to  be  able  to  mobilize  'em  a  bit  and  put  the 
wind  up  these  dam  hares.  I'm  going  to  try  anyway. 
I  may  say  I  look  on  it  as  a  duty." 

"  Looked  on  in  that  light  it's  a  sacred  duty,*'  said 


The  Harriers   (I)  i8i 

I ;  "  and — er — incidentally  we  might  reap  a  haunch  of 
hare  out  of  it  now  and  again,  mightn't  we?  " 

"  Incidentally,  yes,"  said  Albert  Edward,  "  and  a 
trifle  of  sport  into  the  bargain — incidentally." 

So  we  set  about  collecting  a  pack  there  and  then  by 
offering  our  servants  five  francs  per  likely  dog  and  no 
questions  asked. 

Xo  questions  were  asked,  but  I  have  a  strong  suspicion 
that  our  gentlemen  were  up  all  night  and  that  there 
were  dark  deeds  done  in  the  dead  of  it,  for  the  very  next 
evening  my  groom  and  countryman  presented  us  with  a 
bill  for  forty-five  francs. 

The  dogs,  he  informed  us,  were  kennelled  "  in  a  little 
shmall  place  the  like  of  an  ice-house  "  at  the  northern 
extremity  of  the  chateau  grounds,  and  that  "  anyway  a 
blind  man  himself  couldn't  miss  them  wid  the  screechin' 
an'  hollerin'  they  are  afther  raisin'  be  dint  of  the  con- 
finement." 

I  had  an  appointment  with  the  Q.  Staff  (to  explain 
why  I  had  indented  for  sixty-four  horse  rations  while 
only  possessing  thirty-two  horses,  the  excuse  that  they 
all  enjoyed  very  healthy  appetites  apparently  not  suf- 
ficing), so  Albert  Edward  went  forth  to  inspect  the 
pack  alone. 

He  came  into  Mess  very  late,  looking  hot  and  dis- 
hevelled. 

"  My  word,  they've  looted  a  blooming  menagerie," 
he  panted  in  my  ear ;  "  still,  couldn't  expect  to  pick 
Pytchley  puppies  off  every  bush,  I  suppose.'^ 

"  What  have  they  got,  actually  ?  "  I  inquired. 


1 82  The  Mud  Larks 

"  Two  couple  of  Belgian  light-draught  dogs — you 
know,  the  kind  they  hitch  on  to  any  load  too  heavy  for 
a  horse — an  asthmatic  beagle,  an  anaemic  bloodhound, 
a  domesticated  wolf,  an  unfrocked  poodle,  and  a  sort 
of  dropsical  pug." 

"  WTiat  on  earth  is  the  pug  for  ? "  I  asked. 

"  Luck,"  said  Albert  Edward.  "  Your  henchman 
says  '  them  kind  of  little  dogs  do  be  bringing  ye  luck,' 
and  backs  it  up  with  a  very  convincing  yam  of  an 
uncle  of  his  in  Bally-something  who  had  a  lucky  dog — 
'  as  like  this  wan  here  as  two  spits,  except  maybe  for 
the  least  little  curliness  of  the  tail ' — which  provided 
complete  immunity  from  ghosts,  witches'  evil  and  in- 
growing toe-nails,    I  thought  it  cheap  at  five  francs." 

"  But,  good  Lord,  that  lot'll  never  hunt  hares,"  I 
protested. 

"  Won't  they  ?  "  said  Albert  Edward  grimly.  "  With 
the  only  meal  they'll  ever  see  prancing  along  in  front 
of  them,  and  you  and  me  prancing  along  behind  scourg- 
ing 'em  with  scorpions,  I  rather  fancy  they  will.  By 
the  way,  I  know  you  won't  mind,  but  I've  had  to  shift 
your  bed  out  under  the  chestnut-tree;  it's  really  quite  a 
good  tree  as  trees  go." 

"  But  why  can't  I  stop  in  my  hen-house  ?  "  I  objected. 

"  Because  I've  just  moved  the  pack  there,"  said  he. 

"  But  why  ?  "  I  went  on.  "  What's  the  matter  with 
the  ice-house  ? " 

"That's  just  it,"  he  hissed  in  my  ear;  "it  isn't  an 
ice-house — never  was;  it's  the  De  Valcourt  family 
vault." 


The  Harriers  (I)  183 

The  next  day  being  propitious,  we  decided  to  bold  our 
first  meet  tbat  evening,  and  issued  a  few  invitations. 
The  Veterinary  Bloke  and  tbe  Field  Casbier  promised 
to  sbow  up,  likewise  tbe  Padre,  once  tbe  sacredness  of 
our  cause  bad  been  explained  to  bim. 

At  noon  "  stables  "  Albert  Edward  reported  tbe  pack 
in  fine  fettle.  "  Kicking  up  a  fearful  din  and  look 
desperate  enougb  to  bunt  a  boly  angel,"  said  be.  "  At 
five  o'clock,  me  lad,  Hard  forrard !  Tally-bo !  and  Odds- 
boddikins!  " 

However  at  4.45  p.m.,  just  as  I  was  mounting,  be 
appeared  in  my  lines  wearing  slacks  and  a  very  down- 
cast expression. 

"  Wasb-out,"  be  growled ;  "  tbeyVe  been  fed  and 
are  now  lying  about,  blown  up  and  dead  to  tbe 
world." 

"  But  wbo  tbe  devil  fed  tbem  ?  "  I  tbundered. 

"  Tbey  fed  tbemselves,"  said  Albert  Edward.  "  Tbey 
ate  tbe  blooming  lucky  dog  at  balf-past  four." 

We  tberefore  postponed  tbe  bunt  until  tbe  morrow; 
but  cannibalism  (so  cannibals  assure  me),  once  indulged 
in,  becomes  as  absorbing  as  morpbia  or  jig-saws,  and 
at  two-fifteen  tbe  next  afternoon  my  groom  reported  tlie 
beagle  to  bave  gone  tbe  way  of  tbe  pug,  and  tbe  pack 
once  more  dead  to  tbe  world. 

Tbere  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  postpone  tbe  sbow 
yet  again,  and  tie  up  each  bound  separately  as  a  pre- 
caution against  further  orgies. 

However  it  seemed  to  bave  become  a  habit  with 
them,  for  the  moment  tbey  were  unleashed  on  tbe  even- 


184  The  Mud  Larks 

ing  of  the  third  day  they  turned  as  one  dog  upon  the 
poodle, 

I  wiped  the  bloodhound's  nose  for  him  with  a  deft 
swipe  of  my  whip  lash,  and  Albert  Edward's  charger 
anchored  the  domesticated  wolf  by  treading  firmly  on  its 
tail,  all  of  which  served  to  give  the  fugitive  a  few  sec- 
onds' start;  and  then  a  wave  of  mad  dog  dashed  be- 
tween our  horses'  legs  and  was  on  his  trail  screaming 
for  gore. 

The  poodle  heard  the  scream  and  did  not  dally,  but 
got  him  hence  with  promptitude  and  agility.  He 
streaked  across  the  orchard,  leading  by  five  lengths ;  but 
the  good  going  across  the  park  reduced  his  advantage. 
He  dived  through  the  fence  hard  pressed  and,  with  the 
bloodhound's  hot  breath  singeing  his  tail  feathers,  leaped 
into  the  back  of  a  large  farm-cart  which  happened,  provi- 
dentially for  him,  to  be  meandering  down  the  broad 
highway. 

In  the  shafts  of  the  cart  was  a  sleepy  fat  Percheron 
mare.  On  the  seat  was  a  ponderous  farmeress,  up- 
holstered in  respectable  black  and  crowned  with  a  bead 
bonnet  They  were  probably  making  a  sentimental  ex- 
cursion to  the  ruins  of  their  farm.  I  know  not;  but  I 
do  know  that  the  fat  mare  was  suddenly  shocked  out  of  a 
pleasant  drowse  to  find  herself  the  centre  of  a  frenzied 
pack  of  wolves,  bloodhounds  and  other  dog-hooligans, 
and,  not  liking  the  look  of  things,  promptly  bolted. 

Albert  Edward  and  I  dropped  over  the  low  hedge 
to  see  the  cart  disappearing  down  the  road  in  a  whirl 
of  dust  pursued  by  our  vociferous  harriers. 


The  Harriers   (I)  185 

The  fat  farmeress,  her  bonnet  wobbling  over  one  ear, 
was  tugging  manfully  at  the  reins  and  howling  to  Saint 
Lazarus  of  Artois  to  put  on  the  brakes.  Over  the  tail- 
board protruded  the  head  of  the  poodle,  yelping  derision 
at  his  baffled  enemies. 

People  will  tell  you  Percherons  cannot  gallop;  can't 
they  ?  Believe  me  that  grey  mare  flitted  like  a  startled 
gazelle.  At  all  events  she  was  too  good  for  our  pack, 
whom  we  came  upon  a  mile  distant,  lying  on  their  backs 
in  a  ditch,  too  exhausted  to  do  anything  but  put  their 
tongues  out  at  us,  while  far  away  we  could  see  a  small 
cloud  of  dust  careering  on  towards  the  horizon. 

"  God  help  the  Traffic  Controlman  at  the  next 
corner,"  Albert  Edward  mused;  "he'll  never  know 
what  struck  him.  "Well,  that  was  pretty  cheery  while 
it  lasted,  what  ?  To  see  that  purler  the  Padre  took  over 
the  garden-wall  was  alone  worth  the  money." 

"  Oh,  well,  I  suppose  we'd  best  herd  these  perishers 
home  to  kennels  while  they're  still  too  weak  to  protest 
Come  on." 

"  And  in  the  meanwhile  the  festive  lapin  breeds  and 
breeds,"  said  Albert  Edward. 


1 86  The  Mud  Larks 


XXXI 

THE  HARRIEES  (II) 

ALBERT  EDWARD  and  I  were  seated  on  a  log  out- 
^side  the  hen-house  which  kennelled  our  pack  when 
we  perceived  Algy,  the  A.D.C.,  tripping  daintily  to- 
wards us.  Albert  Edward  blew  a  kiss.  "  Afternoon, 
Algy.  How  chit  he  looks  in  his  pink  and  all !  Tell  me, 
do  people  ever  mistake  you  for  a  cinema  attendant  and 
give  you  peimies  ?  " 

"  Afternoon,  Algy,"  said  I.  "  Been  spending  a 
strenuous  morn  carrying  the  old  man's  respirator — ^with 
his  lunch  inside  ?  " 

For  answer  Algy  tipped  me  backwards  off  the  log, 
and  sitting  down  in  my  place,  contemplated  our  hounds 
for  some  seconds. 

"  And  are  these  the  notorious  Hare-'em  Scare-'ems  ?  " 
he  inquired. 

I  nodded.  "  Yessir ;  absolutely  the  one  and  only  pack 
of  harriers  operating  in  the  war  zone.  Guaranteed  gun- 
broke,  shell-shocked,  shrapnel-pitted  and  bullet-bitten." 

Algy  sniffed.  "  What's  that  big  brute  over  in  the 
corner,  he  of  the  crumpled  face  and  barbed  smile? 
Looks  like  a  bloodhound." 

"Is  a  bloodhound,"  said  Albert  Edward.  "If  you 
don't  believe  me  step  inside  and  behave  like  raw  rump 
steak  for  a  moment." 


The  Harriers   (II)  187 

Algy  pointed  bis  cane.  "  And  that  creature 
industriously  delousing  itself?  That's  a  wolf,  of 
course  ? " 

"Its  wolfery  is  only  skin-deep,"  said  I.  "A  grey 
gander  all  but  annihilated  it  yesterday.  In  my  opinion 
it's  a  sheep  in  wolf's  clothing." 

Algy  wagged  his  cane,  indicating  the  remaining  two 
couples. 

"  And  these  ?    \Vhat  breed  would  you  call  them  ?  " 

Albert  Edward  grunted.  "  You  could  call  them  any 
breed  you  like  and  be  partly  right.  We've  named  them 
'  The  Maconochies,'  which,  being  interpreted,  meaneth  a 
little  of  everything." 

"  And  how  many  hares  have  you  killed  ? "  Algy  in- 
quired. 

"  We  haven't  exactly  killed  any  as  yet,"  said  I, 
"  but  we've  put  the  breeze  up  'em ;  their  moral  is  very 
low." 

"  Well,  my  bold  Nimrods,"  said  Algy,  "  I'm  sorry 
to  say  the  game  is  up." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  '  game '  ?  "  objected  Albert 
Edward.  "  I've  told  you  before  that  this  is  a  serious 
attempt  to  avert  a  plague  of  rodents.  Why,  in  Australia 
I've  seen " 

Algy  held  up  his  hand. 

"  I  know,  I  know.  But  some  people  who  have  not 
enjoyed  your  harrowing  Colonial  experience  are  a  trifle 
sceptical.  Listen.  Last  evening,  as  I  was  driving  home 
with  the  old  man  through  Vaux-le-Tour,  whom  should  I 
see  but  you  two  sportsmen  out  on  the  hillside  riding 


1 88  The  Mud  Larks 

down  a  hare,  followed  at  some  distance  hy  three  mounted 
bargees " 

"The  Padre,  the  Field  Cashier  and  O.C.  Bugs," 
Albert  Edward  explained.  '"  We're  making  men  of 
'em.     Go  on." 

— "  followed  at  a  still  greater  distance,"  continued 
Algy,  "  bv  a  raging  band  of  mongrels.  By  the  way, 
don't  you  get  your  hunt  the  wrong  way  round,  the  cart 
before  the  horse,  so  to  speak?  I  always  thought  it 
customary  for  the  hounds  to  go  first." 

"  In  some  cases  the  hare  wouldn't  know  it  was  being 
hunted  if  they  did,"  said  I.  "  This  is  one  of  them. 
Forge  ahead." 

"  Well,  so  far  so  good ;  the  old  gent  was  drowsing  in 
his  corner  and  there  was  no  harm  done." 

"  So  you  gave  him  a  dig  in  the  ribs,  I  suppose,  and 
bleated,  '  Oh,  look  at  naughty  boys  chasing  ickle  bunny 
wabbit ! '  "  sneered  Albert  Edward. 

Algy  wagged  his  head.  "  'Not  me.  You  woke  him 
up  yourself,  my  son,  by  tootling  on  your  little  tin 
trumpet.  He  heard  it  through  his  dreams,  shot  up 
with  a  '  Good  Lord,  what's  that  ? '  popped  his  head 
out  of  the  window  and  saw  the  brave  cavalcade 
reeling  out  along  the  sky-line  like  a  comic  movie. 
He  drank  in  the  busy  scene,  then  turned  to  me  and 
said " 

Albert  Edward  interrupted.  "  I  know  exactly  what 
he  said.  He  said,  '  Algy,  me  boy,  that's  the  spirit. 
Vive  le  sport!  How  it  reminds  us  of  our  young  days  in 
the  Peninsular!     Oft-times  has  our  cousin  of  Welling- 


The  Harriers   (II)  189 

ton  remarked  to  us  how  Waterloo  was  won  on  the  play- 
ing  '  " 

Algy  cut  off  the  flow  and  continued  with  his  piece. 
"  He  said  to  me,  '  God  bless  my  soul,  if  those  young 
devils  aren't  galloping  a  hare ! '  I  said,  '  Sir,  they 
maintain  that  they  are  doing  good  work  by  averting  a 
threatened  plague  of  rodents,  a  state  of  affairs  which  has 
proved  very  detrimental  to  the  Anti-podes.' 

"  '  Threatened  plague  of  grandmothers ! '  replied  the 
old  warrior.  '  They're  enjoying  themselves,  that's  what 
they're  doing — having  a  splendid  time.  Mind  you, 
I've  no  objection  to  you  young  chaps  amusing  your- 
selves in  secret,  but  this  is  too  damn  flagrant  altogether. 
Just  imagine  the  hullabaloo  in  the  House  if  word  of 
these  goings-on  got  home.  "  B.E.F.  enjoying  them- 
selves !  Don't  they  know  there's  a  war  on  ?  ChercJiez 
le  general  and  off  with  his  head !  "  Trot  round  and  see 
your  dog-fancying  friends  and  tell  'em  that  if  they're 
fond  of  good  works  I  recommend  crochet.'  Thus  the 
General.  I  must  be  off  now,  got  to  take  the  old  bird  up 
to  have  a  peep  at  the  War.    Good-byee." 

Algy  tripped  daintily  off  home  again,  twirling  his 
cane  and  whistling  cheerfully.  Sourly  we  watched  him 
depart. 

"  I  believe  that  youth  positively  revels  in  spreading 
gloom,"  Albert  Edward  growled.  "  Oh,  well,  I  sup- 
pose we'll  have  to  get  rid  of  the  dogs  now.  Orders  is 
orders." 

"  But  do  you  think  they'll  go  ?  "  I  asked.  "  We've 
been  feeding  'em  occasionally  of  late." 


190  The  Mud  Larks 

"  We'll  herd  'em  down  to  where  they  can  get  wind 
of  the  infantry  cookers,"  said  Albert  Edward ;  "  once 
they  sniff  the  rare  old  stew  they'll  forget  all  about  us." 

Accordingly  an  hour  later  we  released  our  pack  from 
the  hen-house  for  the  last  time.  They  immediately  gave 
chase  to  an  errant  tabby  kitten,  which  threw  off  a  noise 
like  many  siphons  and  shot  up  a  tree,  baffling  them 
completely.  We  speedily  herded  them  out  of  the 
chateau  grounds,  Albert  Edward  ambling  in  front, 
wringing  mournful  music  out  of  his  horn,  and  I  bring- 
ing up  the  rear,  snapping  my  whip-cracker  under  the 
sterns  of  the  laggards.  We  had  no  sooner  left  the  park 
for  the  open  grass  country  beyond  when  up  jumped  a 
buck  hare,  right  from  under  our  feet,  and  away  went 
the  pack  rejoicing,  bass  and  falsetto. 

Albert  Edward  tugged  his  excited  mare  to  a  standstill. 
"  Look  at  those  blighters !  "  he  shouted.  ^'  Hunting  noses 
down  in  pukka  style  for  the  first  time,  just  because  they 
know  we  can't  follow  them.    Oh,  this  is  too  much !  " 

"  I  don't  see  why  we  shouldn't  follow  them  at  a 
distance,"  said  L  "  We  can  pretend  there's  no  con- 
nection— there  is  no  connection  really,  we  didn't  lay 
'em  on.  They're  hunting  on  their  own.  We're  just  out 
for  a  ride." 

Albert  Edward  winked  an  eye  at  me  and  gave  his 
mare  her  head.  The  pack  by  this  time  was  well  across 
the  plain,  the  wolf  leading,  noisily  supported  by  the 
Maconochies  and  the  bloodhound.  Thrice  the  hare 
turned  clear  and  squatted,  but,  thanks  to  the  blood  dog's 
infallible  nose,  he  was  ousted  each  time  and  pushed  on, 


Jll 


The  Harriers   (II)  191 

failing  visibly.  He  made  a  sharp  curve  towards  the 
■windmill,  and  Albert  Edward  and  I  topped  the  miller's 
fence  in  time  to  see  the  Maconochies  roll  him  over  among 
the  weeds.  We  also  saw  something  on  the  highway  be- 
hind the  mill  which  we  had  not  previously  noticed, 
namely  a  grey  Limousine.  On  a  fallen  tree  by  the  way- 
side sat  the  General,  his  face  as  highly  coloured  as  his 
hat.  Towards  us  down  the  garden-path  tripped  Algy, 
twirling  his  cane  and  whistling  cheerily.  Albert  Ed- 
ward groaned. 

"  Something  in  the  demeanour  of  yon  youth  tells 
me  he  beareth  our  death-warrants.  Here,  you  hold  the 
horses  while  I  feed  the  guillotine.  This  is  by  far,  far 
the  best  thing  that  I  have  ever  done." 

He  slung  his  reins  and  tottered  to  his  doom.  I 
watched  him  approach  within  five  yards  of  the  old  man 
when  a  strange  thing  happened.  The  General  suddenly 
uttered  a  loud  cry  and,  leaping  to  his  feet,  commenced 
to  dance  up  and  down  the  road,  tearing  and  belabouring 
himself  and  swearing  so  outrageously  that  I  had  diffi- 
culty in  holding  the  horses.  His  chauffeur  and  Algy 
rushed  to  his  side,  and  they  and  Albert  Edward  grouped 
in  a  sympathetic  circle  while  he  danced  and  raved  and 
beat  himself  in  their  midst.  Presently  the  air  seemed 
to  bo  full  of  flying  tunics,  shirts,  camisoles,  etc.,  and  a 
second  later  I  beheld  the  extraordinary  spectacle  of  a 
Lieutenant-General  dancing  practically  nude  (expecting 
for  his  cap  and  boots)  in  the  middle  of  a  French  high- 
way, while  two  subalterns  and  a  private  smacked  him 
all  over,  and  most  heartily.     For  nearly  a  minute  it 


192  The  Mud  Larks 

continued,  and  then  lie  seemed  to  get  himself  under 
control  and  was  led  away  by  Algy  to  his  car,  the  chauf- 
feur following,  retrieving  apparel  off  trees  and  bushes. 
Albert  Edward,  one  quivering  smirk,  wobbled  up  and 
took  his  reins.  "  By  Jove!  saved  again.  He  can't  very 
well  bite  the  hand  that  spanked  hira,  can  he  ?  " 

"  But  what  on  earth  was  the  matter  ?  "  I  asked.  "  A 
fit,  religious  mania,  a  penance — ^what  ?  " 

"  He  sat  on  a  waspodrome,"  said  Albert  Edward, 
"  and  they  got  on  his  tail." 


The  Camera  Cannot  Lie  193 

XXXII 
THE  CAMERA  CAKjS^OT  LIE 

WHEX  I  was  young  I  was  extremely  handsome. 
I  have  documentary  evidence  to  prove  as  much. 
There  is  in  existence  a  photograph  of  a  young  gentle- 
man standing  with  his  back  to  a  raging  seascape,  one 
hand  resting  lightly  on  a  volume  of  Shakespeare,  which 
in  turn  is  supported  hy  a  rustic  table.  The  young 
gentleman  has  wide  innocent  eyes,  a  rosebud  mouth 
and  long  golden  curls  (the  sort  poor  dear  old  Komney 
used  to  do  so  nicely).  For  the  rest  he  is  tastefully 
upholstered  in  a  short-panted  velvet  suit,  a  lace  collar 
and  white  silk  socks.  ''Little  Lord  Fauntleroy,"  you 
murmur  to  yourself.  Xo,  Sir  (or  Madam),  it  is  me — 
or  was  me,  rather.  When  I  was  young  no  girl  thought 
herself  properly  married  unless  I  was  present  at  the 
ceremony,  got  up  like  a  prize  rabbit  and  tethered  to  the 
far  end  of  her  train.  Xowadays  I  am  not  so  handsome. 
True,  you  can  urge  a  horse  past  me  without  blindfolding 
it  and  all  that,  but  nobody  ever  mistakes  me  for  Maxiue 
Elliott. 

Personally  I  was  quite  willing  to  be  represented  at 
the  Xational  Portrait  Gallery  by  a  coloured  copy  of  the 
presentment  described  above,  but  my  home  authorities 
thought  otherwise,  and  when  last  I  was  in  England  on 
leave — shortly    after    the    Battle    of    Agincourt — they 


194  The  Mud  Larks 

shooed  me  off  to  Valpre.  "  Go  to  Valpre,"  thej  said ; 
"  he  is  so  artistic."  So  to  Valpre  I  went,  and 
was  admitted  by  a  handmaid  who  waved  a  white  hand 
vaguely  towards  a  selection  of  doors,  murmuring,  "  Wait 
there,  please."  I  opened  the  nearest  door  at  a  venture 
and  entered. 

In  the  waiting-room  three  other  handmaids  were  at 
work  on  photographs.  One  was  painting  dimples  on  a 
lady's  cheek ;  one  filling  in  gaps  in  a  Second-Lieutenant's 
moustache;  one  straightening  the  salient  of  a  stock- 
broker's waistcoat.  Presently  the  first  handmaid  re- 
appeared and  somewhat  curtly  (I  was  waiting  in  the 
wrong  room,  it  seemed)  informed  me  that  the  Master 
was  ready.  So  I  went  upstairs  to  the  operating  theatre. 
After  an  impressive  interval  a  curtain  was  thrust  aside 
and  the  Master  entered.  He  was  not  in  the  least  like  the 
artist  of  my  first  photograph,  who  had  chirruped  and 
done  tricks  with  an  iudiarubber  monkey  to  make  me 
prick  my  ears  and  appear' sagacious.  This  man  had  the 
mane  of  a  poodle,  a  plush  smoking-jacket  with  rococo 
trimmings,  satin  cravat,  rings  and  bangles  like  the  lads 
in  La  Boheme,  and  I  knew  myself  to  be  in  the  presence 
of  True  Art,  and  bowed  my  head. 

At  the  sight  of  me  he  winced  visibly;  didn't  seem  to 
like  my  looks  at  all.  However  he  pulled  himself  together 
and  advanced  to  reconnoitre.  He  pushed  me  into  a 
chair,  manipulated  some  screws  at  the  back,  and  I  found 
my  head  fast  in  a  steel  clamp.  I  pleaded  for  gas  or 
cocaine,  but  he  took  no  notice  and  prowled  off  to  the 
far  end  of  the  theatre  to  observe  if  distance  would  lend 


The  Camera  Cannot  Lie  195 

any  enchantment.  Apparently  it  would  not.  The  more 
he  saw  of  me  the  less  he  seemed  to  admire  the  view. 

Suddenly  the  fire  of  inspiration  lit  his  eye  and  he 
came  for  me.  I  struggled  with  the  clamp,  but  it  clave 
like  a  bull-terrier  to  a  mutton  chop.  In  a  moment 
he  had  me  by  the  head  and  started  to  mould  it 
nearer  to  his  heart's  desire  with  plump  powerful  hands. 
He  crammed  half  my  lower  jaw  into  my  breast  pocket, 
pinned  my  ears  back  so  tightly  that  they  wouldn't  wag 
for  weeks,  pressed  my  nose  down  with  his  thumb  as 
though  it  were  the  button  of  an  electric  bell  and  gener- 
ally kneaded  my  features  from  the  early  Hibernian  to 
the  late  Graeco-Eoman.  Then,  before  they  could  re- 
bound to  their  normal  positions,  he  had  sprung  back, 
jerked  the  lanyard  and  fired  the  camera. 

Some  weeks  later  the  finished  photographs  arrived. 
The  handmaids  had  done  their  bit,  and  the  result  was  a 
pleasing  portraiture,  an  ohjet  d'art,  an  ornament  to  any- 
body's family  album.  The  man  Valpre  was  an  artist 
all  right. 

A  few  days  ago  the  Skipper  whistled  me  into  the 
orderly  room.  His  table  was  littered  with  parade  states, 
horse-registers  and  slips  of  cardboard,  all  intermingled. 
The  Skipper  himself  appeared  to  be  undergoing  some 
heavy  mental  disturbance.  His  forehead  was  furrowed, 
his  toupet  rumpled,  and  he  sucked  his  fountain-pen,  un- 
consciously imbibing  much  dark  nourishment. 

"  Identification  cards,"  he  explained,  indicating  the 
slips.  "  Got  to  carry  'em  now.  Comply  with  Italian 
regulations.     Been  trying  to  describe  you.     Napoo." 


196 


The  Mud  Larks 


He  prodded  the  result  towards  me.  I  scanned  it  and 
decided  he  had  got  it  mixed  with  horse-registers.  It 
read  as  follows: — 


Born    . 

.      Yes. 

Height 

.      17  hands. 

Hair     . 

.        .        .      Bay. 

Eyes     . 

.      Two. 

'Nose    . 

Undulating. 

Moustache   . 

.      Hogged. 

Complexion 

ISTatural. 

Special  Marks     . 

•        •        .     ' 

The  Skipper  pointed  to  the  blank  space.  "  That's 
what  I  want  to  know — special  marks.  Got  any  ?  Snip, 
blaze,  white  fetlock,  anything  ?  " 

"  Yessir,"  said  I.  "  Strawberry  patch  on  off  gaskin." 
He  sucked  thoughtfully  at  his  fountain-pen. 
"  Mmph,"  he  said,  "  shouldn't  mention  it  if  I  were  you. 
Don't  w^ant  to  have  to  undress  in  the  middle  of  the 
street  every  time  you  meet  an  Intelligence,  do  you  ?  " 
I  agreed  that  I  did  not — not  before  June,  anyhow.  The 
Skipper  turned  to  the  card  again  and  frowned. 

"  Couldn't  call  it  a  speaking  likeness  exactly,  this 
little  pen-picture  of  you,  could  one  ?  If  you  only  had 
a  photograph  of  yourself  now." 

"  I  have.  Sir,"  said  I  brightly. 

"  Good  Lord,  man,  why  didn't  you  say  so  before  ? 
Here,  take  this  and  paste  the  thing  in.    Now  trot  away." 

I  trotted  away  and  pasted  Valpre's  ohjet  d'art  on  to 
the  card. 


The  Camera  Cannot  Lie  197 

Yesterday  evening  Albert  Edward  and  I  were  riding 
out  of  a  certain  Italian  town  (no  names,  no  pack  drill). 
Albert  Edward  got  involved  in  a  rigbt-of-way  argument 
between  five  bullock  wagons  and  two  lorries,  and  I 
jogged  on  ahead.  On  the  fringe  of  the  town  was  a  bar- 
rier presided  over  by  a  brace  of  Carabinieri  caparisoned 
with  war  material,  whiskers  and  cocked  hats  of  the  style? 
popularised  by  Bonaparte.  Also  an  officer.  As  I  moved 
to  pass  the  barrier  the  officer  spied  me  and,  not  liking 
my  looks  (as  I  hinted  before,  nobody  does),  signed  to 
me  to  halt.  Had  I  an  identification  card,  please?  I 
had  and  handed  it  to  him.  He  took  the  card  and  ran  a 
keen  eye  over  the  Skipper's  little  pen-picture  and 
VaJpre's  "  Portrait  Study,"  then  over  their  alleged 
original.  "  Lieutenant,"  said  he  grimly,  "  these  don't 
tally.    This  is  not  you." 

I  protested  that  it  was.  He  shook  his  head  with  great 
conviction,  "  !N^ever!  The  nose  in  this  photograph  is 
straight ;  the  ears  retiring;  the  jaw,  normal.    While  with 

you [Continental     politeness     restrained     him]. 

Lieutenant,  you  must  come  with  me." 

He  beckoned  to  a  jSTapoleonic  corporal,  who  ap- 
proached, clanking  his  war  material.  I  saw  myself 
posed  for  a  firing  squad  at  grey  dawn  and  shivered  all 
over.     I  detest  early  rising. 

By  this  time  the  corporal  had  outflanked  me,  clank- 
ing more  munitions,  and  I  was  on  the  point  of  being 
marched  off  to  the  Bastille,  or  whatever  they  call  it, 
when  Albert  Edward  suddenly  insinuated  himself  into 
the  party  and  addressed  himself  to  the  officer.     "  Half 


198  The  Mud  Larks 

a  minute,  Mongsewer  [any  foreigner  is  Mongsewer  to 
Albert  Edward].  The  photograph  is  of  him  all  right, 
but  it  was  taken  before  his  accident." 

"  His  accident  ?  "  queried  the  officer. 

"  Yes,"  said  Albert  Edward ;  "  sad  affair,  shell-shock. 
A  crump  burst  almost  in  his  face,  and  shocked  it  all  out 
of  shape.    Can't  you  see  ?  " 

The  Italian  leaned  forward  and  subjected  my  flushed 
features  to  a  piercing  scrutiny;  then  his  dark  eyes 
softened  almost  to  tears,  and  he  handed  me  back  my 
card  and  saluted. 

"  Sir,  you  have  my  apologies — and  sympathy.  Good 
evening." 

"  Albert  Edward,"  said  I,  as  we  trotted  into  the 
dusk,  "  you  may  be  a  true  friend  but  you  are  no  gentle- 
man." 


Lionel  Trelawney  199 

XXXIII 

lio]st:l  tkelawney 

lionel  trelawney  molyneux-moly- 
^  NEUX  was  of  the  race  of  the  Beaux.  Had  he 
flourished  in  the  elegant  days,  Nash  "would  have  taken 
snuff  with  him,  D'Orsay  wine — ^no  less.  As  it  was, 
the  high  priests  of  Savile  Eow  made  obeisance  before 
him,  the  staff  of  the  Tailor  and  Cutter  penned  leaders 
on  his  waistcoats,  and  the  lilies  of  the  field  whined 
"  Kamerad  "  and  withered  away. 

When  war  broke  out  Lionel  Trelawney  issued  from 
his  comfortable  chambers  in  St.  James's  and  took  a 
hand  in  it.  He  had  no  enthusiasm  for  blood-letting. 
War,  he  maintained  from  the  first,  was  a  vuglar  pastime, 
a  comfortless  revolting  state  of  affairs  which  bored  one 
stiff,  forced  one  to  associate  with  all  sorts  of  impossible 
people  and  ruined  one's  clothes.  Nevertheless  the  West- 
end  had  to  be  saved  from  an  invasion  of  elastic-sided 
boots,  celluloid  dickeys,  Tyrolese  hats  and  musical  soup- 
swallowing.    That  was  his  war-aim. 

Through  the  influence  of  an  aunt  at  the  War  Office 
he  obtained  a  commission  at  once,  and  after  a  month's 
joining-leave  (spent  closeted  with  his  tailor)  he  ap- 
peared, a  shining  figure,  in  the  Mess  of  the  Loamshire 
Light  Infantry  and  with  them  adventured  to  Gallipoli. 
It  is  related  that  during  the  hell  of  that  first  landing. 


200  The  Mud  Larks 

when  boats  were  capsizing,  wounded  men  being  dragged 
under  bj  tentacles  of  barbed  wire,  machine-guns  whip- 
ping the  sea  to  bloody  froth,  Lionel  Trelawney  was  ob- 
served standing  on  a  prominent  part  of  a  barge,  his  eye- 
glass fixed  on  his  immaculate  field  boots,  petulantly  re- 
marking, "  And  now,  damn  it,  I  suppose  I've  got  to  get 
wet !  " 

After  the  evacuation  the  battalion  went  to  Prance, 
but  not  even  the  slush  of  the  salient  or  the  ooze  of 
Festubert  could  dim  his  splendour.  Whenever  he  got 
a  chance  he  sat  down,  cat-like,  and  licked  himself. 
Wherever  he  went  his  batman  went  also,  hauling  a  sack- 
ful of  cleaning  gear  and  changes  of  raiment.  On  one 
occasion,  hastening  to  catch  the  leave  train,  he  spurred 
his  charger  into  La  Bassee  Canal.  He  emerged,  like 
some  river  deity,  profusely  decorated  in  chick-weed,  his 
eyeglass  still  in  his  eye  ("  Came  up  like  a  blinking  U- 
boat,"  said  a  spectator,  "periscope  first"),  footed  it 
back  to  billets  and  changed,  though  it  cost  him  two  days 
of  his  leave. 

He  was  neither  a  good  nor  a  keen  officer.  He  was 
not  frightened — he  had  too  great  a  contempt  for  war 
to  admit  the  terror  of  it — but  he  gloomed  and  brooded 
eternally  and  made  no  effort  to  throw  the  faintest  en- 
thusiasm into  his  job.  Yet  for  all  that  the  Loamshires 
suffered  him.  He  had  his  uses — he  kept  the  men 
amused.  In  that  tense  time  just  before  an  attack,  when 
the  minute  hand  was  jerking  nearer  and  nearer  to  zero, 
when  nerves  were  strung  tight  and  people  were  sending 
anxious  inquiries  after  Lewis  guns,  S.A.A.,  stretchers, 


Lionel  Trelawney  201 

bombs,  etc.,  Lionel  Trelawney  would  say  to  his  batman, 
''  Have  you  got  the  boot  and  brass  polish,  the  Blanco, 
the  brushes?  Sure?  "  (a  sigh  of  relief).  "  Very  well, 
now  we'll  be  getting  on,"  and  so  would  send  his  lads 
scrambling  over  the  parapet  grinning  from  east  to  west. 

"  Where's  ole  Collar  and  Cuffs  ?  "  some  muddy  war- 
rior would  shout  after  a  shrieking  tornado  of  shell  had 
swept  over  them.  "  Dahn  a  shell-hole  cleanin'  his 
teef,"  would  come  the  answer,  and  the  battered  platoon 
chuckled  merrily.  "  'E's  a  card,  'e  is,"  said  his  Ser- 
geant admiringly.  "  Marched  four  miles  back  to  billets 
in  'is  gas-mask,  perishin'  'ot,  all  because  he'd  lost  'is 
razor  an'  'adn't  shaved  for  two  days.  'E's  a  nut  'e  is 
and  no  error." 

It  happened  that  the  Loamshires  were  given  a  job 
of  crossing  Mr.  Hindenburg's  well-known  ditch  and 
taking  a  village  on  the  other  side.  A  company  of  tanks, 
which  came  rolling  out  of  the  dawn-drizzle,  spitting  fire 
from  every  crack,  put  seven  sorts  of  wind  up  the  Land- 
sturmer  gentlemen  in  possession;  and  the  Loamshires, 
getting  their  first  objectives  with  very  light  casualties, 
trotted  on  for  their  second  in  high  fettle,  sterns  up  and 
w^agging  proudly.  The  tanks  went  through  the  village 
knocking  chips  off  the  architecture  and  pushing  over 
houses  that  got  in  the  way;  and  the  Loamshires  followed 
after,  distributing  bombs  among  the  cellars. 

The  consolidation  was  proceeding  when  Lionel  Tre- 
lawney sauntered  on  the  scene,  picking  his  way  deli- 
cately through  the  debris  of  the  main  street.  He 
lounged  up  to  a  group  of  Loamshire  officers,  yawned, 


202  The  Mud  Larks 

told  them  how  tired  he  was,  cursed  the  drizzle  for  dim- 
ming his  buttons  and  strolled  over  to  a  dug-out  with  the 
object  of  sheltering  there.  He  got  no  further  than  the 
entrance,  for  as  he  reached  it  a  wide-eyed  German  came 
scrambling  up  the  steps  and  collided  with  him,  bows  on. 
For  a  full  second  the  two  stood  chest  to  chest  gaping, 
too  surprised  to  move.  Then  the  Hun  turned  and 
bolted.  But  this  time  Lionel  Trelawney  was  not  too 
bored  to  act.  He  drew  his  revolver  and  rushed  after  him 
like  one  possessed,  firing  wildlv.  Two  shots  emptied  a 
puddle,  one  burst  a  sandbag,  one  winged  a  weather-cock 
and  one  went  just  anywhere.  His  empty  revolver  caught 
the  flying  Hun  in  the  small  of  the  back  as  he  vaulted 
over  a  wall ;  and  Lionel  Trelawney  vaulted  after  him. 

"  Molly's  gone  mad,"  shouted  his  amazed  brother- 
officers  as  they  scrambled  up  a  ruin  for  a  better  view 
of  the  hunt.  The  chase  was  proceeding  full-cry  among 
the  small  gardens  of  the  main  street.  It  was  a  stirring 
spectacle.  The  Hun  was  sprinting  for  dear  life,  Lionel 
Trelawney  hard  on  his  brush,  yelping  like  a  frenzied 
fox-terrier.  They  plunged  across  tangled  beds,  crashed 
through  crazy  fences,  fell  head  over  heels,  picked  them- 
selves up  again  and  raced  on,  wheezing  like  punctured 
bagpipes. 

Heads  of  Atkinses  poked  up  everywhere.  "  S'welp 
me  if  it  ain't  ole  Collar  and  Cuffs !  Go  it,  Sir,  that's 
the  stuff  to  give  'em !  "  A  Yorkshireman  opened  a  book 
and  started  to  chant  the  odds,  but  nobody  paid  any  at- 
tention to  him.  The  Hun,  badly  blown,  dodged  inside 
a  shattered  hen-house.    Lionel  Trelawney  tore  up  hand- 


Lionel  Trelawney  203 

fuls  of  a  ruined  wall  and  bombed  liim  out  of  it  with 
showers  of  brickbats.  Aw^ay  went  the  chase  again, 
cheered  by  shrill  yoicks  and  cat-calls  from  the  spectators. 

Suddenly  tliere  was  an  upheaval  of  planks  and  brick- 
dust,  and  both  runners  disappeared. 

"  Gone  to  ground,  down  a  cellar,"  exclaimed  the 
brother-officers.     "  Oh,  look !     Fritz  is  crawling  out." 

The  white  terrified  face  of  the  German  appeared  on 
the  ground  level,  then  with  a  wriggle  (accompanied  by 
a  loud  noise  of  rending  material)  he  dragged  his  body 
up  and  was  on  his  way  once  more.  A  second  later 
Lionel  Trelawney  was  up  as  well,  waving  a  patch  of  grey 
cloth  in  his  hand.  "  Molly's  ripped  the  seat  out  of  his 
pants,"  shouted  the  grand-stand.  "  Yow,  tear  'm, 
Pup !  "  "  Good  ole  Collar  and  Cuffs !  "  chorused  the 
Loamshire  Atkinses. 

Lionel  Trela\vney  responded  nobly;  he  gained  one 
yard,  two  yards,  five,  ten.  The  Hun  floundered  into  a 
row  of  raspberry  canes,  tripped  and  wallowed  in  the 
mould.  Trela^vney  fell  on  him  like  a  Scot  on  a  three- 
penny bit  and  they  rolled  out  of  sight  locked  in  each 
other's  embrace. 

The  Loamshires  jumped  down  from  their  crazy 
perches  and  doubled  to  see  the  finish,  guided  by  the 
growlings,  grunts,  crashing  of  raspberry  canes  and  jets 
of  garden  mould  flung  sky-high.  They  were  too  late, 
however.  They  met  the  victor  propelling  the  remains  of 
the  vanquished  up  a  lane  towards  them.  His  fawn 
breeches  were  black  with  mould,  his  shapely  tunic 
shredded  to  ribbons ;  his  sleek  hair  looked  like  a  bird's- 


204  The  Mud  Larks 

nest;  bis  nose  listed  to  starboard;  one  eye  bulged  like 
a  shuttered  bow-"\\'indow ;  bis  eje-glass  was  not.  But  tbe 
amazing  tbing  about  it  was  tbat  be  didn't  seem  to  mind; 
be  beamed,  in  fact,  and  with  a  cheery  shout  to  his 
friends — "  Merry  little  scamper — eh,  what  ?  " — be  drop- 
kicked  his  souvenir  a  few  yards  further  on,  exclaiming, 
"  That'll  teach  yen  to  slop  soup  over  my  shirt-front, 
you  rude  fellow !  " 

"  Soup  over  your  shirt-front !  "  babbled  the  Loam- 
shires.    "  What  are  you  talking  about  ?  " 

"  Talking  about  ?  "  said  Lionel  Trelawney.  "  Why, 
this  arch-ruffian  used  to  be  a  waiter  at  Claritz's,  and  he 
shed  mulligatawny  all  over  my  glad-rags  one  night  three 
years  ago — aggravated  me  fearfully." 


The  Booby  Trap  205 

XXXIV 
THE  BOOBY  TRAP 

A  GENEROUS  foe,  the  soul  of  chivalry,  I  am  al- 
ways ready  to  admit  that  the  Boche  has  many 
good  points.  Eor  instance,  he  is — er — er — oh,  well,  I 
can't  think  of  any  particular  good  point  just  for  the 
moment.  On  the  other  hand,  it  must  be  admitted  that 
he  has  his  bad  ones  also,  and  one  of  these  is  that  he 
cannot  stand  success ;  he  is  the  world's  worst  winner. 

iN'ever  does  he  pull  off  one  of  these  "  victorious  re- 
treats "  of  his  but  he  needs  must  spoil  the  effect  by 
leaving  behind  all  sorts  of  puerile  booby  traps,  butter- 
slides,  etc.,  for  the  annoyance  of  the  on-sweeping  van- 
quished, displaying  a  state  of  mind  which  is  usually 
slippered  out  of  one  at  a  dame  school. 

Most  of  his  practical  jokes  are  of  the  fifth  of  !N'ovem- 
ber  order  and  detonate  by  means  of  a  neat  arrangement 
of  springs,  wire  and  acid  contained  in  a  small  metal 
cylinder. 

You  open  a  door  and  the  attached  house  blows  away 
all  round  it,  leaving  the  door  in  your  damaged  hand. 
You  step  on  a  duckboard ;  something  goes  bang !  and  the 
duckboard  ups  and  hits  you  for  a  boundary  to  leg 
— and  so  on,  all  kinds  of  diversions. 

Of  course  you  don't  really  open  doors  and  prance 
on  duckboards;  that's  only  what  he    (Jerry)    in  his 


2o6  The  Mud  Larks 

simple  faith  imagines  you  will  do.  In  reality  you  revive 
memories  of  the  days  when  as  a  small  boy  you  tied  trip- 
strings  in  dark  passages  and  balanced  water-jugs  on 
door-tops ;  and  all  the  Boche's  elementary  parlour-tricks 
immediately  become  revealed  unto  you. 

[N'ot  long  ago  the  Hun,  thirsting  for  yet  more  im- 
perishable laurels,  made  a  sudden  masterly  manoeuvre 
towards  the  East.  Our  amateur  Staff  instantly  fell  into 
the  trap,  and  when  battle  joined  again  we  found  we 
had  been  lured  twenty  miles  nearer  Germany. 

The  Hun  had  not  left  things  very  comfortable  for 
us ;  most  of  the  cover  had  been  blown  up,  and  there  was 
the  usual  generous  provision  of  booby  traps  lying  about 
dumbly  pleading  to  be  touched  off.  However,  we 
sheltered  in  odd  holes  and  comers,  scrounged  about  for 
what  we  could  "  souvenir  "  and  made  ourselves  as  snug 
as  possible. 

It  was  while  riding  out  alone  on  one  of  these  souvenir- 
ing  expeditions  that  our  William  came  upon  a  chaff- 
cutter  standing  in  what  had  once  been  the  stable  yard  of 
what  had  once  been  a  chateau.  INow  to  a  mounted  unit 
a  chaff-cutter  is  a  thing  of  incredible  value.  It  is  to  us 
what  a  mincing-machine  is  to  the  frugal  housewife. 

Our  own  cutter  was  with  the  baggage,  miles  away  in 
the  rear,  and  likely  to  remain  there. 

William  slipped  off  his  horse  and  approached  the 
thing  gingerly.  It  was  a  Boche  engine,  evidently  quite 
new  and  in  excellent  trim.  This  was  altogether  too 
good  to  be  true;  there  must  be  a  catch  somewhere. 
William  withdrew  twenty  yards  and  hurled  a  briok  at  it 


The  Booby  Trap  207 

— two,  three,  four  bricks.  Nothing  happened.  He  ap- 
proached again  and  tying  one  end  of  a  wrecked  tele- 
phone wire  to  it,  retired  behind  a  heap  of  rubble  and 
tugged. 

The  chaff-cutter  rocked  to  and  fro  and  finally  fell 
over  on  its  side  without  anything  untoward  occurring. 
William,  wiping  beads  from  his  brow,  came  out  of  cover. 
There  was  no  catch  in  it  after  all.  It  was  a  perfectly 
genuine  bit  of  treasure-trove.  The  Skipper  would  pat 
his  curly  head,  say  "  Good  boy,"  and  exalt  him  above 
all  the  other  subalterns.    Bon — very  hon! 

But  how  to  get  it  home  ?  For  you  cannot  carry  full- 
grown  chaff-cutters  about  in  your  breeches  pockets.  For 
one  thing  it  spoils  the  set  of  your  pants.  He  must  get 
a  limber.    Yes,  but  how  ? 

The  country  was  quick  with  other  cavalrymen  all 
in  the  souvenir  business.  If  he  left  the  chaff-cutter  in 
order  to  fetch  a  limber,  one  of  them  would  be  sure  to 
snap  it  up.  On  the  other  hand,  if  he  waited  for  a  limber 
to  come  trotting  up  of  its  own  sweet  will  he  might  con- 
ceivably wait  for  the  rest  of  the  War.  Limbers  (G.S. 
Mule)  are  not  fairy  coaches. 

Our  William  was  up  against  it.  He  plunged  his 
hands  into  his  tunic-pockets  and  commenced  to  stride 
up  and  down,  thinking  to  the  best  of  his  ability. 

In  pocketing  his  right  hand  he  encountered  some  hard 
object.  On  drawing  the  object  forth  he  discovered  it 
to  be  his  mother's  gift.  William's  mother,  under  the  im- 
pression that  her  son  spends  most  of  his  time  lying 
wounded  and  starving  out  in  No-man's  land,  keeps  him 


2o8         .  The  Mud  Larks 

liberally  supplied  with  tabloid  meals  to  sustain  him  on 
these  occasions — herds  of  bison  corralled  into  one 
lozenge,  the  juice  of  myriad  kine  concentrated  in  a 
single  capsule.  This  particular  gift  was  of  peppermints 
(warranted  to  assuage  thirst  for  weeks  on  end).  But 
it  was  not  the  peppermints  that  engaged  William's  young 
fancy ;  it  was  the  container,  small,  metal,  cylindrical. 

His  inspiration  took  fire.  He  set  the  tin  under  the 
chaff-cutter,  chopped  off  a  yard  of  telephone  wire,  buried 
one  end  in  peppermints,  twisted  the  other  about  the 
leg  of  the  cutter,  mounted  his  horse  and  rode  for  dear 
life. 

When  he  returned  with  the  limber  an  hour  later,  he 
found  three  cavalrymen,  two  horse-gunners  and  a  trans- 
porteer  grouped  at  a  respectful  radius  round  the  chaff- 
cutter,  daring  each  other  to  jerk  the  wire. 

When  William  stepped  boldly  forward  and  jerked 
the  wire  they  all  flung  themselves  to  earth  and  covered 
their  heads.  When  nothing  happened  and  he  coolly  pro- 
ceeded to  load  the  cutter  on  the  limber  they  all  sat  up 
again  and  took  notice. 

When  he  picked  up  the  tin  and  offered  them  some  pep- 
permints they  mounted  their  horses  and  rode  away. 


\ 


The  Phantom  Army  209 

XXXV 
THE  PHANTOM  AKMY 

ICAJil'  readily  believe  that  war  as  performed  by 
Messieurs  our  ancestors  was  quite  good  fun.  You 
dressed  up  in  feathers  and  hardware — like  something 
between  an  Indian  game-cock  and  a  tank — and  caracoled 
about  the  country  on  a  cart-horse,  kissing  your  hand  to 
balconies  and  making  very  liberal  expenses  out  of 
any  fat  (and  unarmed)  burgesses  that  happened 
along. 

With  the  first  frost  you  went  into  winter  quarters — 
i.e.  you  turned  into  the  most  convenient  castle  and 
whiled  away  the  dark  months  roasting  chestnuts  at  a 
log  fire,  entertaining  the  ladies  with  quips,  conundrums 
and  selections  on  the  harpsichord  and  vying  with  the 
jester  in  the  composition  of  Limericks. 

The  profession  of  arms  in  those  spacious  days  was 
both  pleasant  and  profitable.  Nowadays  it  is  neither; 
it  is  a  dreary  melange  of  mud,  blood,  boredom  and  blue- 
funk  (I  speak  for  myself). 

Yet  even  it,  miserable  calamity  that  it  is  (or  was), 
has  produced  its  piquant  situations,  its  high  moments; 
and  one  manages  to  squeeze  a  sly  smile  out  of  it  all, 
here  and  there,  now  and  again. 

I  have  heard  the  skirl  of  the  Argyll  and  Sutherland 
battle-pipes  in  the  Borghese  Gardens  and  seen  a  High- 


2IO  The  Mud  Larks 

lander  dance  the  sword-dance  before  applauding  Eome. 
I  have  seen  the  love-locks  of  a  matinee  idol  being 
trimmed  with  horse-clippers  (weep,  O  ye  flappers  of 
Suburbia!)  and  a  Royal  Academician  set  to  whitewash 
a  pig-sty.  I  have  seen  American  aviators  in  spurs, 
Royal  Marines  a-horse,  and  a  free-born  Australian  eat- 
ing rabbit.    All  these  things  have  I  seen. 

And  of  high  moments  I  have  experienced  plenty  of 
late,  for  it  has  been  my  happy  lot  to  be  in  the  front 
of  the  hunt  that  has  swept  the  unspeakable  Boche  back 
off  a  broad  strip  of  France  and  Belgium,  and  the  mem- 
ory of  the  welcome  accorded  to  us,  the  first  British,  by 
the  liberated  inhabitants  will  remain  with  us  until  the 
last  "  Lights  Out."  The  procedure  was  practically  the 
same  throughout. 

There  would  come  a  crackle  of  wild  rifle-fire  from  the 
front  of  a  village ;  then,  as  we  worked  round  to  the  flank, 
a  dozen  or  so  blue-cloaked  Uhlans  would  scamper  out  of 
the  rear  and  disappear  at  a  non-stop  gallop  for  home. 
In  a  second  the  street  would  be  full  of  people,  emptying 
out  of  houses  and  cellars,  pressing  about  us,  shaking 
hands,  kissing  us  and  our  horses  even,  smothering  us 
wath  flowers,  cheering  '''  Vivent  les  Anglais!" .  "  Vive 
la  France!"  clamouring,  laughing,  crying,  mad  with 

Grandmeres  would  appear  at  attic  windows  waving 
calico  tricolours  (hidden  for  four  long  years)  while 
others  plastered  up  tricolour  hand-bills — "  Hommage  a 
nos  Liherateurs,"  "  God's  blessing  unto  Tommy." 

However,  touching  and  delightful  though  it  all  might 


The  Phantom  Army  211 

be,  it  was  not  getting  on  with  the  war ;  this  embarras  des 
amis  was  saving  the  Uhlans'  hide. 

Furthermore,  though  I  can  bring  myself  to  bear  with 
a  certain  amount  of  embracing  from  attractive  young 
things,  I  do  not  enjoy  the  salutations  of  unshorn  old 
men ;  and  when  Mayors  and  Corporations  got  busy  my 
native  modesty  rebelled,  and  I  would  tear  myself  loose 
and,  with  my  steed  decorated  from  ears  to  croup  with 
flowers,  so  that  I  looked  more  like  a  perambulating  hot- 
house than  a  poor  soldier-man,  take  up  the  pursuit  once 
more. 

In  due  course  we  came  to  the  considerable  town  of  X. 
All  happened  as  before.  As  we  popped  in  at  one  flank 
the  bold  Uhlan  popped  out  at  the  other,  and  the  towns- 
folk flooded  the  streets.  I  was  dragged  out  of  the 
saddle,  kissed,  pump-handled  and  cheered  while  my 
bewildered  charger  was  led  aside  and  festooned  with 
pink  roses.  Tricolours  appeared  at  every  window ;  hand- 
bills of  welcome  were  distributed  broadcast.  The  Mayor 
and  Corporation  arrived  at  the  double,  and  we  struggled 
together  for  some  moments  while  they  rasped  me  with 
their  stubbly  beards.  When  the  first  ecstasies  had 
somewhat  abated  I  gathered  my  troop  and  prepared  to 
move  again. 

"  Whither  away  ? "  the  Mayor  enquired,  a  fine  old 
veteran  he,  wearing  two  1870  medals  and  the  ribbon  of 
the  Legion. 

"  To  Z.,"  said  I. 

" Ecoutez,  done"  he  warned.  "  They  are  waiting  for 
you  there  in  force,  machine-guns  and  cannon." 


212  The  Mud  Larks 

I  intimated  that  nevertheless  I  must  go  and  have  a 
look-see,  at  any  rate,  and  so  rode  out  of  town,  the  vast 
crowd  accompanying  us  to  the  outskirts,  cheering,  shout- 
ing advice,  warnings  and  blessings.  In  sight  of  Z.  wo 
shed  our  floral  tributes  and,  debouching  off  the  high- 
way into  the  open,  worked  forwards  on  the  look-out 
for  trouble. 

It  came.  A  dozen  pip-squeaks  shrilled  overhead  to 
cause  considerable  casualties  among  some  neighbouring 
cabbages,  and  shortly  afterwards  rifle-fire  opened  from 
outlying  cottages.  I  swung  round  and  tried  for  an  open- 
ing to  the  north,  but  a  couple  of  machine-guns  promptly 
gave  tongue  on  that  flank.  Another  flock  of  pip-squeaks 
kicked  up  the  mould  in  front  of  us  and  some  fresh  rifles 
and  machine-guns  joined  in.     Too  hot  altogether. 

I  was  just  deciding  to  give  it  best  and  cut  for  cover 
when  all  hostile  fire  suddenly  switched  off,  and  a  few 
minutes  later  I  beheld  light  guns  on  lorries,  machine- 
guns  in  motor-cars  and  Uhlans  on  horses  stampeding  out 
of  the  village  by  all  roads  east. 

The  day  was  mine.  Yip,  Yip !  Bonza !  Skoo-kum ! 
Hurroosh !  Nevertheless  I  was  properly  bewildered,  for 
it  was  absurd  to  suppose  that  an  overwhelming  force  of 
heavily-armed  Huns  could  have  been  bluffed  out  of  a 
strong  position  by  the  merest  handful  of  unsupported 
cavalry.     Manifestly  absurd  !  " 

I  turned  about,  and  in  so  doing  my  eye  lit  on  the 
poplar-lined  highway  from  X.,  and  I  understood. 
Along  the  road  poured  the  hordes  of  an  advancing  army, 
advancing  in  somewhat  irregular  column  of  route,  with 


The  Phantom  Army  213 

banners  flying.  The  head  of  the  column  was  not  a 
mile  distant.  The  Infantry  must  be  on  my  heels, 
thought  I.  Stout  marching !  I  grabbed  up  my  glasses, 
took  a  long  look  and  bellowed  with  laughter.  It  was 
not  the  Infantry  at  all ;  it  was  the  liberated  population 
of  X.,  headed  by  the  Mayor  and  Corporation,  come  out 
to  see  the  fun,  the  grandmeres  and  grandperes,  the  girls 
and  boys,  the  dogs  and  babies,  marching,  hobbling,  skip- 
ping, toddling  down  the  pave,  waving  their  calico  tri- 
colours and  singing  the  Marseillaise.  I  thought  of  the 
Boche  fleeing  eastward  with  the  fear  of  God  in  his 
soul,  and  roUed  about  in  my  saddle  drunk  with  joy. 


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